In the Wake of Thought: The Dialectics of Scientific Knowledge

In the Depth of the Concept Lies Truth’s Essence; Its True Expression Unfolds in the Scientific System, Where Negativity Becomes the Source of Life.

Table of Contents

Abstract

This work, In the Wake of Thought: The Dialectics of Scientific Knowledge, analyses the relationship between philosophical inquiry and scientific understanding, as explored through the lens of Hegel’s Phenomenology of Spirit. Written with a deep commitment to Hegelian thought, the paper seeks to illuminate the nature of scientific knowledge, its emergence through the dialectical process, and its ultimate place within the development of universal spirit. The exploration is rooted in a critical engagement with Hegel’s Preface, where the role of the concept in shaping knowledge and truth is examined, and where the shift from individualism to collective understanding is thoroughly analyzed.

The author argues that the true nature of science transcends the empirical and the abstract, drawing attention to the inherent self-movement of concepts. By focusing on the dialectical process, the paper distinguishes between mere reasoning and conceptual thinking, asserting that the former often falls into superficiality while the latter leads to the unfolding of truth. The paper also challenges conventional philosophical approaches that reduce knowledge to static propositions, urging a reconsideration of how science and philosophy must combine in their search for the truth of the whole. Through this philosophical examination, the work invites readers to reconsider the boundaries of thought and to engage with knowledge in a more dynamic, transformative way.

Written entirely by the author, this paper positions itself within the rich tradition of Hegelian dialectics while also offering a contemporary perspective on the intersection of science, philosophy, and universal knowledge. It invites readers to engage with Hegel’s insights on knowledge as a self-sustaining process that must be understood not in isolation but within the organic unity of all concepts. Through this lens, In the Wake of Thought not only serves as a scholarly contribution to Hegel studies but also as a meditation on the deeper, often overlooked dimensions of scientific inquiry and philosophical thought.

When approaching a philosophical text, the conventional expectation of a preface—offering an outline of the author’s aims, the circumstances surrounding the work’s creation, or its relationship to prior and contemporary inquiries—often proves both unnecessary and ill-suited. While such prefaces may serve practical purposes in works of other disciplines, they risk undermining the distinctive nature of philosophy itself. Philosophy does not lend itself easily to preliminary explanations, for its subject matter is not external to the work but emerges within it, shaped and revealed by the progression of its own internal logic.

Indeed, the very idea of explaining a philosophical undertaking in advance presumes a distance between its purpose and its execution—a distance incompatible with the unified and self-determining character of speculative thought. Unlike the sciences, where conclusions may be outlined and summarized without compromising their integrity, philosophical truth resides not merely in the content but in the method, the form, and the totality of its systematic exposition.

Thus, any attempt to preface such a work risks misrepresenting its essence. Philosophy requires immersion, a willingness to engage with its dialectical unfolding, wherein each concept finds its justification only in its connection to the whole. A preface, therefore, can only gesture toward the work to come, serving as a bridge for the reader but not as a substitute for the journey itself.

This hesitation toward prefacing a philosophical text arises from the inherent risk of introducing contradictions between the prefatory explanations and the work itself. In philosophy, truth is not a static datum to be merely presented or declared; it is a dynamic unfolding, inseparable from the process of its articulation. A prefatory explanation, by its nature, presupposes an external standpoint—a position outside the system—through which the work’s purpose, value, or relationship to other efforts might be appraised. Yet such an external stance is antithetical to the very essence of speculative philosophy, which demands that truth be apprehended from within its immanent development.

The act of delineating a philosophical work’s relationship to prior or contemporary treatments of the same subject, while customary in other disciplines, poses unique challenges in this context. By engaging in such comparative framing, one risks introducing an external interest—whether polemical, conciliatory, or critical—that distracts from the core objective of philosophy: the unadulterated pursuit of truth. The reader, instead of being invited into the dialectical movement of ideas, may be tempted to measure the work against external standards or preoccupations, thereby reducing its scope to mere commentary or reaction.

Philosophical inquiry must resist such distractions because its focus lies in the cognition of truth as such, not in the affirmation or negation of other intellectual efforts. While engagement with prior thought is inevitable and even necessary—since philosophy evolves through the history of ideas—this engagement must occur within the organic unfolding of the philosophical system itself. To artificially introduce these relationships at the outset risks obscuring the work’s internal logic, turning the reader’s attention away from the intrinsic connections that constitute the philosophical method.

Moreover, such prefatory contextualizations carry an implicit assumption that philosophy can be meaningfully understood as a collection of discrete contributions, each offering its own perspective on a shared subject matter. This fragmented view, while suitable for empirical or historical sciences, fails to capture the holistic nature of philosophical truth. Philosophy does not simply add to a repository of knowledge; it aims to reveal the totality of reason, wherein all particular claims find their place within an interconnected system. To focus prematurely on external comparisons is to diminish the self-sufficient character of speculative thought, diverting attention from the unity of concept and reality that philosophy seeks to unveil.

In this sense, the very act of preemptively situating a philosophical text within a broader intellectual landscape risks perpetuating the very limitations that the text itself seeks to transcend. The proper engagement with a philosophical work demands that one suspend such external preoccupations, allowing the text to reveal its truth in its own terms and through its own methodical progression. Only then can philosophy fulfill its highest aim: to grasp truth as a living totality, free from the distortions of extraneous concerns.

The prevailing view of truth often approaches it as a binary opposition to falsity, reducing complex philosophical systems to mere positions that one must either endorse or reject. Under this lens, truth is treated as static and fully formed, leaving no room for the nuances of philosophical evolution. Any explanation of a new idea is then interpreted as either a confirmation of pre-existing beliefs or a challenge to them, reinforcing a framework of rigid agreement or irreconcilable contradiction. This perspective is not merely limited but fundamentally misaligned with the nature of truth as it unfolds in philosophy.

What this common perspective fails to grasp is that the apparent contradictions between philosophical systems are not outright negations of one another but are instead moments within the progressive development of truth. Each system, with its unique concepts and methodologies, contributes to a larger dialectical movement—a historical process wherein truth reveals itself in stages. These stages may appear discordant or even antagonistic when viewed in isolation, yet they are integrally connected, like the successive forms of a living organism, each containing the seeds of its successor.

The bud, blossom, and fruit illustrate this dynamic beautifully. The bud, in its initial form, holds the promise of the blossom within it, even as the blossom’s emergence signifies the end of the bud’s distinct existence. One might say that the blossom “refutes” the bud, but this is only in the sense that the blossom fulfills what the bud implicitly contains. Similarly, the fruit replaces the blossom as the ultimate truth of the plant, yet it does not negate the blossom’s importance; rather, it completes the process the blossom began.

In this way, the so-called contradictions between philosophical systems are better understood as moments of transformation within the organic development of thought. Just as the bud, blossom, and fruit are not independent entities but interconnected stages of a single life process, so too are the systems of philosophy unified within the dialectic of reason. What appears as the “refutation” of an earlier system by a later one is, in reality, the unfolding of truth in richer and more comprehensive forms. Each system preserves aspects of its predecessor while transcending its limitations, carrying forward its essential insights into new configurations.

To see diversity in philosophy merely as contradiction is to misunderstand the very nature of truth. Truth is not a static endpoint but a dynamic process, one that moves through apparent oppositions toward greater unity and coherence. This process is not linear but dialectical, involving negation and synthesis at every stage. The “false” in this context is not an absolute failure but a necessary moment within the larger movement of truth’s realization. As the fruit does not negate the blossom but brings the plant to fruition, so too does each philosophical system contribute to the growth of knowledge, even as it is surpassed by more developed expressions of truth.

Such a perspective demands a reevaluation of how we engage with philosophical systems. Instead of seeking agreement or contradiction with our preconceived notions, we must approach each system as a moment in the living development of reason, appreciating its contributions while recognizing its limitations. Only then can we move beyond the superficial opposition of truth and falsity to embrace the deeper dialectic that animates the philosophical enterprise.

At first glance, the various forms of philosophical thought appear not only different but fundamentally incompatible, as if the emergence of one form necessarily displaces and invalidates the others. This seeming incompatibility often leads to a superficial understanding that treats these forms as isolated and mutually exclusive, disconnected fragments vying for the title of “truth.” However, such a perspective overlooks the deeper, organic unity underlying these apparent conflicts. In reality, these forms are not independent or antagonistic entities but interrelated moments within a living, dynamic whole. Their differences, rather than signifying discord, are the conditions for their mutual necessity and interdependence.

The fluid nature of these forms lies at the heart of their relationship. Each form emerges from the limitations of its predecessor, carrying forward what was implicit and developing it into a new stage of understanding. In this progression, no single form holds a monopoly on truth; instead, each contributes a vital part to the greater unfolding of reason. This process is not one of simple coexistence, where forms merely occupy space side by side, but of an active and evolving interplay in which each moment is necessary to the life of the whole.

This organic unity is akin to the functioning of a living organism, where every part—though distinct—derives its meaning and purpose from its relation to the whole. The roots, trunk, branches, leaves, and fruit of a tree, for instance, do not merely coexist but depend on one another for their existence and vitality. Similarly, the various forms of thought are not isolated structures but moments within the dialectical development of truth. The displacement of one form by another does not signify its annihilation but rather its transformation, as the whole incorporates and transcends each moment in turn.

The necessity of this process lies in the very nature of truth as dynamic and self-developing. Truth does not rest in any singular, fixed form; it reveals itself through the dialectical movement in which each form contributes to the enrichment of the whole. The life of this whole—whether conceived as the unity of reason, spirit, or the unfolding of reality itself—depends on the interplay of its moments. Each moment is both distinct and indispensable, a particular expression that only finds its true meaning in relation to the totality.

By understanding these forms as moments of an organic unity, we can move beyond the superficial view that sees them as incompatible opposites. Their differences are not barriers to coherence but are instead the engine of development, the tension that drives the dialectical progression of thought. This progression constitutes the life of the whole, a self-sustaining process in which each form both preserves and transcends its predecessors, building toward an ever-deepening comprehension of truth.

Opposition to a philosophical system frequently misunderstands the nature of its own stance, failing to recognize itself as part of the broader dialectical movement it seeks to critique. Such opposition often approaches philosophical systems as if they were isolated doctrines, capable of being dismissed outright based on their perceived inadequacies or contradictions. This approach, however, is fundamentally one-sided, as it neglects the deeper interconnectedness that binds all philosophical forms within the dynamic unfolding of truth.

The perceiving consciousness—the mode of awareness that engages with these systems from a vantage point external to their internal logic—typically lacks the capacity to free itself from this one-sidedness. It views opposition as a definitive rejection, rather than as a moment within a larger process of development. Consequently, it fails to preserve what is essential in that opposition: the role it plays in propelling thought forward, in challenging limitations, and in contributing to the eventual synthesis of a higher understanding.

What remains obscured to such consciousness is the mutual necessity of the seemingly opposing forms. In viewing contradiction as a mark of failure, rather than as a driver of progression, the perceiving consciousness misses the dialectical nature of truth. Each conflicting form is not merely an obstacle to coherence but an indispensable moment of the whole. These moments, though they may appear irreconcilable in isolation, are in fact bound together by the necessity of their mutual tension—a tension that drives the evolution of thought and reveals the deeper unity underlying their surface opposition.

The failure to recognize this unity often stems from a limited, linear conception of truth, where ideas are judged as correct or incorrect in isolation from one another. Yet truth, as grasped philosophically, is not a fixed endpoint that can be measured against isolated claims; it is the totality of its unfolding, wherein even contradictions are subsumed as moments of development. In this light, opposition does not negate a philosophical system but instead illuminates the boundaries of its perspective, preparing the way for the integration and transcendence of these boundaries in a more comprehensive system.

To free opposition from its one-sidedness, one must adopt a dialectical view that sees contradiction as essential to the movement of reason. The tension between opposing forms is not a sign of failure but a sign of vitality, the necessary condition for the life of the whole. This recognition requires a shift in perspective—a willingness to see beyond the immediacy of disagreement and to embrace the broader process through which truth emerges. Only then can the perceiving consciousness rise to the level of speculative thought, wherein oppositions are reconciled, and the apparent fragmentation of thought gives way to the unity of reason.

What might seem fitting to include in the preface of a philosophical work—a historical overview of philosophy’s tendencies and evolution, a broad summary of its content and conclusions, or even assurances about the validity of its claims—ultimately cannot dictate the proper mode of presenting philosophical truth. Philosophy, by its very nature, resists such external framing because its essence lies not in static declarations or isolated outcomes but in the dynamic movement through which truth is revealed. The mode of its presentation must, therefore, be determined by the unique demands of speculative thought itself, rather than by conventions borrowed from other domains of inquiry.

Philosophy operates within the element of universality, a realm that transcends mere particularities while simultaneously containing them. In this universality, individual elements are not discarded but integrated, transformed into moments that contribute to the whole. This characteristic distinguishes philosophy from other sciences, which often deal with their subjects in relative isolation, breaking them into discrete, analyzable parts. For philosophy, however, the particular cannot be understood apart from the universal, and the universal cannot exist without the particular. This interpenetration creates a distinct challenge: philosophy often appears to encapsulate its subject matter entirely in its overarching purposes or conclusions, giving rise to the illusion that its detailed, step-by-step development is secondary or incidental.

This illusion stems from the way philosophy seeks to articulate the essence of things in their most general terms. Unlike the natural sciences, which rely on empirical observation to build cumulative knowledge, or the historical sciences, which trace the unfolding of specific events, philosophy aims to comprehend reality as a totality. Its general claims can, at first glance, appear to capture the entire essence of its subject matter, as if the purpose of philosophical inquiry were fully expressed in its ultimate results. This perception can lead to the mistaken belief that the detailed unfolding of philosophical arguments—the careful dialectical movement from one idea to another—is merely ornamental, a laborious path that could be bypassed without loss.

Yet this view profoundly misunderstands the nature of philosophical truth. The truth of philosophy is not a static endpoint or a set of abstract principles that can be separated from the method by which they are derived. Instead, philosophical truth resides in the very process of its becoming. The movement from particular to universal, from contradiction to synthesis, is not merely a means to an end; it is the end itself, the living realization of thought as it comes to comprehend itself. To neglect this detailed development is to miss the essence of philosophy, for the universal cannot truly be grasped without the particulars that constitute its content, and the particulars find their meaning only within the context of the universal.

This inseparability of content and method, of particularity and universality, is what sets philosophy apart from other disciplines and makes its presentation uniquely challenging. A historical account of philosophy’s tendencies may provide valuable context, and a summary of its general content may offer an initial orientation. Yet neither can substitute for the rigorous unfolding of philosophical truth in its systematic form. The reader must engage with philosophy on its own terms, following its movement as it progresses from one moment to the next, rather than expecting its truths to be handed down in ready-made conclusions or assurances.

Philosophy’s universality, while its greatest strength, is also the source of its most persistent illusion: that its ultimate results, standing alone, express the full essence of its subject matter. To succumb to this illusion is to miss the richness and depth of philosophical inquiry, which lies not in its conclusions alone but in the intricate pathways through which those conclusions are reached. The task of philosophy, then, is to resist the temptation to bypass this process, to reveal truth not as a static object but as a living totality, accessible only through the dialectical movement of thought.

In contrast to philosophy, other disciplines often rely on general representations that provide a clear but limited definition of their subject matter. Consider anatomy, which is commonly defined as the study of the parts of the body viewed in their lifeless existence. Such a definition, while useful for orientation, is immediately understood to be insufficient—it gestures toward the subject matter of anatomy but does not yet encompass its depth or content. It is clear to anyone engaging with this field that the true substance of the discipline lies in its detailed study of the body’s structures and their interrelations, not merely in the abstract idea of “parts” or their inert state. To truly understand anatomy, one must engage with its particulars: the intricate forms of nerves, muscles, bones, and organs, as well as the dynamic interplay between these components in the living organism.

This recognition—the understanding that general definitions cannot capture the full richness of a discipline—applies broadly to legitimate sciences. Whether in anatomy, biology, physics, or any other field, one accepts that definitions and generalities serve only as starting points. They are useful for setting the stage but must be supplemented by detailed investigations, observations, and analyses. These particulars are not optional addenda; they are essential to the discipline itself, providing the substance and depth that bring the initial definitions to life.

However, when dealing with a mere aggregation of knowledge that lacks the coherence and systematicity required to bear the name of science, this dynamic changes. In such cases, the general representations and discussions about purpose, content, or context are often indistinguishable from the content itself. For example, a collection of information about nerves, muscles, or other anatomical components, presented without an organizing framework or unifying principle, does not constitute anatomy in the scientific sense. It becomes, at best, a descriptive catalog and, at worst, a concept-less enumeration of facts. Without a guiding structure or a method to reveal the interconnections and deeper significance of the material, such a collection remains superficial, incapable of advancing understanding.

This distinction underscores the critical difference between genuine sciences and mere accumulations of information. Genuine sciences, like anatomy, recognize the insufficiency of general definitions and actively seek to transcend them by engaging with particular details in a systematic and methodical way. They aim to uncover not just the existence of discrete elements but the principles and relationships that animate and unify them. Philosophy, operating on an even higher level, must likewise resist the temptation to rely on generalities alone. While it begins in the realm of universality, its task is to bring this universality into concrete form through the dialectical development of thought.

In contrast, aggregative approaches—whether in anatomy, philosophy, or any other discipline—remain stagnant. They fail to progress beyond a surface-level engagement with their subject matter, offering at best a fragmented view and at worst a lifeless inventory. For philosophy, this failure would mean abandoning its very essence, for it is through the rigorous interplay of the universal and the particular, the abstract and the concrete, that philosophical truth emerges. Philosophy must not only articulate its general purpose but also realize this purpose through the systematic unfolding of its content, a process that mirrors the life and interconnection found in the sciences, but on a higher, more speculative plane.

In philosophy, attempts to explain its purpose or results through general definitions or preliminary statements often result in significant misunderstandings. These explanations fail on two key fronts. First, they do not adequately illuminate the relationship between particular moments and the whole. Each philosophical concept or stage within a system appears isolated or self-contained, stripped of its essential connection to the broader process of truth’s unfolding. This fragmented perspective reduces philosophy to a series of disconnected claims, obscuring the deeper coherence that binds them together into a unified totality.

Second, such explanations misrepresent the true nature of philosophical inquiry. Philosophy is not a static collection of conclusions or a set of timeless principles delivered fully formed. It is a living, dynamic progression—a movement through necessary stages, each of which arises in response to the limitations of its predecessor and paves the way for the next. These stages are not arbitrary; they are moments in a dialectical process in which contradictions are not obstacles to be avoided but essential drivers of development. The contradictions that emerge between concepts or systems are not mere errors or failures; they are integral to the organic evolution of thought, leading toward a more comprehensive synthesis.

This progressive nature of philosophy is what distinguishes it from other forms of inquiry. While empirical sciences may rely on external methods, such as experimentation and observation, to refine their understanding, philosophy’s method is immanent. Its truth is not something external to be discovered or imposed but something internal that unfolds from within the structure of its reasoning. Each stage of this process is both a critique of what came before and a necessary step toward what comes after, forming a chain of moments that only find their meaning within the whole.

The unity of this process is crucial for understanding the apparent contradictions that arise along the way. When viewed in isolation, these contradictions may seem irreconcilable—clashes between opposing ideas or systems that cannot coexist. However, when seen as moments of a larger dialectical development, these contradictions reveal their essential role in the movement of truth. Just as the growth of an organism involves stages that might appear contradictory—seed, bud, blossom, and fruit—so too does philosophy progress through stages that, taken together, constitute an organic whole.

It is only in their unity that these apparent contradictions can be properly understood. Each moment is a necessary part of the whole, and its significance lies not in its immediate form but in its place within the broader development of truth. Philosophy, therefore, cannot be reduced to a series of isolated claims or judged by the seeming contradictions between its stages. Its essence lies in its movement, its ability to reconcile oppositions within a dynamic process that leads toward the realization of truth as a living totality.

By misrepresenting philosophy as a static or fragmented endeavor, preliminary explanations obscure its true nature and purpose. Philosophy demands that we engage not merely with its results but with the path through which those results are achieved. Only by embracing its dialectical movement can we grasp its essence and see the contradictions not as barriers but as vital expressions of the whole.

The demand for explanations that outline the purposes and results of a philosophical text, as well as the satisfaction often derived from them, might seem to address something essential. After all, what could better illuminate the heart of a philosophical work than a clear articulation of its aims and conclusions? Such an approach appears, at first glance, to provide a comprehensive lens through which the text can be evaluated and understood. Moreover, by distinguishing these purposes and results from the broader intellectual productions of the age, such explanations might seem to place the philosophical text in sharp relief, defining its uniqueness and relevance within the cultural and historical moment.

Yet this apparent clarity comes at a cost. When such explanations are treated as more than an introductory aid—when they are mistaken for actual understanding—they betray their superficial nature. They reduce philosophy to a set of external markers, bypassing the rigorous engagement required to grasp its essence. This tendency is one of those intellectual contrivances that, while giving the appearance of seriousness and effort, effectively avoid the substance of the matter itself. The demand for such explanations reflects a desire for shortcuts—ways to navigate philosophy without fully entering into the depth of its inquiry, while still maintaining the facade of genuine engagement.

The problem lies in the nature of philosophical understanding itself. Philosophy cannot be encapsulated in prefatory statements about its aims or its place within a broader intellectual context. Such explanations, however well-intentioned, risk trivializing the work by treating its purpose and results as isolated endpoints that can be apprehended independently of the process by which they are achieved. This approach overlooks the fact that in philosophy, the method and the content are inseparable. The meaning of a philosophical work does not reside solely in its stated purposes or conclusions but in the dialectical movement through which those purposes are realized and those conclusions are justified.

To regard these prefatory explanations as sufficient for understanding is to misunderstand the very nature of philosophical inquiry. Philosophy does not offer its truths in pre-packaged form; it demands engagement with its unfolding, its contradictions, and its progression through necessary stages. Treating its purposes and results as definitive truths divorced from their development reduces philosophy to a static artifact, stripping it of its dynamic and living character. This reduction is not merely a misunderstanding but an evasion—a way to avoid the challenges posed by genuine philosophical inquiry while preserving the appearance of thoughtful reflection.

Moreover, the satisfaction derived from such superficial explanations is often deceptive. It offers the comfort of clarity and the illusion of mastery, but it fails to provide the deeper understanding that comes from grappling with philosophy’s complexity. This satisfaction is not the reward of genuine insight but the product of intellectual complacency, a preference for easy answers over the hard work of thought. Such an approach ultimately undermines the very purpose of philosophy, which is to challenge, provoke, and expand our understanding, rather than to provide neatly packaged solutions.

True understanding of a philosophical text requires more than familiarity with its stated aims or its distinction from other works of the age. It demands an immersion in its method, a willingness to follow its progression and engage with its contradictions. Only through this process can one apprehend the unity of purpose, method, and result that defines philosophy as a pursuit of truth. Any approach that circumvents this process may appear serious, but it avoids the real substance of philosophy, reducing it to an empty formalism that betrays the very effort it pretends to make.

The essence of any philosophical inquiry is not exhausted by its purpose alone, for purpose, in isolation, is a static and lifeless abstraction. Nor can the final result, taken by itself, be regarded as the actual whole. The true nature of a philosophical work lies in the unity of its result and the process of its becoming—a unity that reveals itself only through the unfolding of its internal movement. Purpose, when stripped of the dynamic process that brings it to realization, becomes a barren universal, devoid of the vitality that makes it meaningful. Similarly, a mere tendency or inclination, no matter how ambitious, remains an empty striving until it is actualized through a coherent progression.

Philosophy, therefore, cannot be reduced to a snapshot of its goals or outcomes. To focus solely on the purpose of a philosophical endeavor is to misunderstand its living character, for the purpose without its execution is like a seed that never germinates—a potentiality that remains unrealized. Likewise, to treat the result as the entirety of the philosophical whole is to mistake the endpoint of a journey for the journey itself. The bare result, considered in isolation, is nothing but the lifeless remains of the process that produced it. It is a corpse, stripped of the vitality and movement that gave it meaning. The process, far from being incidental or secondary, is the lifeblood of philosophy, the dynamic activity through which the universal and particular, the abstract and concrete, are brought into unity.

This distinction is vital to understanding the nature of truth as revealed through philosophical inquiry. Truth is not a static object to be grasped in isolation but a living totality, realized through a dialectical movement in which contradictions are resolved and the particular is integrated into the universal. The process of becoming is not a mere preparatory stage leading to the result; it is an essential component of the result itself. Without this process, the result is hollow, a mere residue of thought rather than the culmination of a dynamic and organic unfolding.

The relationship between purpose, process, and result is analogous to the stages of growth in a living organism. The seed holds within it the potential for the fully grown plant, yet the plant cannot be understood merely by examining the seed or even the mature form. Its life and essence are found in the stages of its development—in the growth of its roots, the emergence of its stem and leaves, the flowering and fruiting that fulfill its potential. To separate the result from the process is to sever the plant from its life, leaving behind only a static and lifeless form.

In the same way, philosophical truth cannot be adequately captured by isolating its results from the process that gave rise to them. Each stage of this process—each moment of striving, contradiction, and resolution—is essential to the whole. The purpose provides the direction, the process brings it to life, and the result integrates and transcends both, forming a totality that is greater than the sum of its parts. To ignore this interplay is to reduce philosophy to a dead artifact, stripped of the dynamic and self-revealing activity that constitutes its essence.

Thus, the matter of philosophy is not found solely in its aims or conclusions but in the living movement that unites them. The process is not ancillary; it is central, for it is through the process that purpose becomes actualized and result attains its truth. The challenge of philosophy is to embrace this movement in its entirety, recognizing that the truth is not in the endpoint alone but in the path that leads there—a path that breathes life into purpose and gives meaning to the result.

Similarly, distinctions, while seemingly integral to understanding, merely serve as the boundaries of the matter at hand. They mark where the matter ends, where its influence ceases, or what it is not. Such distinctions, while useful in drawing lines between concepts, entities, or ideas, fail to penetrate the substance of the matter itself. They define limits but do not reveal essence. This superficial engagement is symptomatic of a broader tendency in intellectual efforts that prioritize purposes, results, or evaluations of one thing in relation to another. Though these efforts may appear demanding, they are far easier than they initially seem, for they do not require the labor of engaging with the inner workings of the matter. Instead, they remain at a safe distance, operating on the surface rather than delving into the depths.

The reason for this ease lies in the nature of such activity. To concern oneself with purposes or results, or with distinctions and comparisons, is to adopt a position external to the subject. This external stance allows the individual to observe and classify without the necessity of immersion, without the transformative act of losing oneself in the object of inquiry. Such activity remains detached, holding the matter at arm’s length while maintaining a sense of control and autonomy. The knowledge gained in this manner is partial and abstract, for it avoids the difficult yet essential task of dwelling within the matter, of allowing the mind to become so thoroughly engaged with its object that it begins to think and develop from within.

This detached approach, while appearing analytical or critical, fundamentally evades the substance of the matter. Instead of truly engaging, it continually reaches for something else—evaluations, comparisons, or external frameworks—thereby avoiding the necessity of surrendering to the matter itself. In doing so, it remains with itself, a self-contained activity that mirrors its own assumptions rather than being shaped or transformed by the object of its study. True engagement with the matter demands a radically different approach: an immersion so complete that the boundaries between subject and object begin to dissolve, allowing thought to be shaped by the inner logic of the matter itself.

This difference between superficial engagement and genuine immersion is profound. The former provides a sense of security, allowing one to retain a comfortable distance while producing neat distinctions and conclusions. The latter, by contrast, requires a willingness to risk losing oneself in the complexity of the matter, to abandon preconceptions and allow the matter to dictate its own terms. This surrender is not a passive act but an active participation in the dialectical process through which the inner truth of the matter is revealed. It is only through such surrender that thought can transcend its initial limitations, moving beyond the external distinctions that merely delineate boundaries and into the living essence that animates the whole.

The easier path—the path of distinctions, evaluations, and comparisons—offers the illusion of understanding without the substance. It remains a reflective activity, turning back upon itself rather than progressing forward into the depth of the matter. True philosophical inquiry, however, demands the harder path: the path of immersion and transformation, where thought does not merely observe the matter but becomes one with it, dwelling within it until its inner truth is brought to light. This is the task of genuine philosophy, a task that requires not just intellectual effort but the courage to let go of oneself in the pursuit of the whole.

The easiest task in intellectual engagement is the act of evaluation, particularly when dealing with something of genuine substance and merit. To critique, appraise, or pass judgment on a work or idea requires only a surface-level engagement, often relying on pre-existing frameworks or subjective preferences. It is a task that, while it may appear weighty or demanding, often sidesteps the deeper labor of understanding. Evaluation operates from a distance, treating the object of inquiry as a completed whole, something to be assessed rather than actively entered into.

Harder than evaluation is the task of truly grasping the matter itself. To grasp something is to penetrate its essence, to engage with it on its own terms rather than through the lens of external criteria. This requires a deeper level of immersion, where one must set aside the comfortable stance of the evaluator and instead allow oneself to be shaped by the internal logic and movement of the object. Grasping demands a disciplined focus, a willingness to engage with the contradictions, nuances, and complexities that constitute the substance of the matter. It is a dynamic process, requiring not just intellectual rigor but also the humility to recognize that true understanding comes only through sustained and thoughtful engagement.

Hardest of all, however, is the task of producing a representation of the matter—one that unites its content and form into a coherent whole. To represent something is not merely to summarize or describe it but to bring it to life in a way that preserves its inner essence while rendering it comprehensible and accessible to others. This is a creative and synthetic act, one that demands mastery of both the substance of the matter and the medium through which it is expressed.

Representation requires the thinker to move beyond mere comprehension, transforming their understanding into an active creation. It involves finding a form that does not distort or diminish the content but instead reveals it in its fullness, preserving the interplay between its particular details and its universal significance. This is no small feat, for the form must resonate with the content, allowing the inherent logic and movement of the matter to shine through without imposing external structures or arbitrary constraints.

The unity of content and form is the pinnacle of intellectual and creative labor. It is not enough for the representation to be clear or elegant; it must also be true, faithfully reflecting the inner nature of the matter while communicating it effectively to others. Achieving this requires an exceptional balance of rigor and intuition, of fidelity to the subject and sensitivity to the audience. The thinker must not only grasp the substance of the matter but also embody it in a form that reveals its essence, bridging the gap between thought and expression.

In this hierarchy of tasks, evaluation is the least demanding because it operates externally, passing judgment without full engagement. Grasping is more challenging because it requires entering into the matter and apprehending its inner truth. But representation is the most demanding of all, as it requires both the depth of understanding needed to grasp the content and the creative power to give it form. It is in this final task that the highest aspirations of thought and art converge, for to represent something fully and truthfully is to participate in the act of creation itself.

The beginning of education—and the initial effort to rise above the immediacy of unreflective, substantial life—always necessitates a fundamental engagement with general principles and viewpoints. Before one can engage deeply with the complexities of thought, there must be a foundation upon which understanding can be built. This process begins with the acquisition of basic knowledge, the development of an awareness of overarching concepts and frameworks that provide an initial orientation. Such general principles serve as the scaffolding for intellectual development, enabling the individual to ascend from the immediate experience of life toward a more reflective and conceptual engagement with the world.

This initial phase of education involves working one’s way up to an understanding of “the matter in general”—the broad, abstract idea or subject at hand. It requires the learner to move beyond surface-level familiarity and begin to think critically about the matter, recognizing its internal logic and significance. This includes not only supporting or affirming the matter with well-reasoned arguments but also challenging and refuting it when appropriate. The ability to provide reasons, whether in support or opposition, is a crucial skill, for it cultivates the capacity to engage with ideas dialectically, embracing the tension and contradiction that often accompany genuine understanding.

Yet the process does not end with abstract reasoning. To grasp the matter fully, one must also penetrate its concrete and rich content, moving from general principles to specific determinations. It is through these particular details that the true depth and complexity of the subject reveal themselves. Abstract principles alone, no matter how compelling, are insufficient without the particularities that ground them in reality. Education, therefore, demands a dual movement: from the particular to the universal and back again, as the learner synthesizes these elements into a coherent understanding.

Moreover, the development of understanding requires not just the acquisition of knowledge but also the ability to provide proper explanations and serious judgments about the matter. Proper explanations go beyond surface-level descriptions to reveal the inner connections and relationships that constitute the essence of the subject. This involves an active engagement with the material, a willingness to immerse oneself in its details and complexities, and an effort to articulate its significance in a way that is both clear and faithful to its nature.

Serious judgment, in turn, is the culmination of this process. It reflects the ability to evaluate the matter not merely based on external criteria or superficial impressions but through a deep and nuanced understanding of its content. Such judgment requires intellectual maturity, the capacity to balance abstract principles with concrete realities, and the discipline to approach the subject with both rigor and openness. It is through this process of explanation and judgment that the learner moves from passive reception to active participation, becoming a true thinker capable of engaging with the world in a meaningful and transformative way.

The path of education, then, is not a straightforward or linear journey. It begins with generalities but must progress toward the concrete, requiring the learner to navigate between abstraction and particularity, affirmation and critique, explanation and judgment. This process is not merely about acquiring knowledge but about cultivating the capacities necessary for understanding and engaging with the world. It is the means by which individuals transcend the immediacy of substantial life, entering into a realm of thought where they can encounter, grasp, and ultimately transform the matter in all its richness and complexity.

However, this initial stage of education—focused on acquiring general principles, reasoning, and judgment—must ultimately yield to the deeper earnestness of a fulfilled life. The early steps of intellectual development, though necessary, remain preparatory. Their purpose is to equip the individual to move beyond the abstract and external engagement with knowledge toward a direct and transformative encounter with the matter itself. A fulfilled life is one in which this transition has taken place, where thought no longer hovers over the subject as an external observer but is immersed in its depth, participating fully in its reality.

This earnestness of life marks a shift from theoretical reflection to lived experience. It is through experience that the abstractions of education are tested, challenged, and enriched, taking on concrete form in the complexities and contradictions of reality. The matter itself is no longer a distant object to be analyzed or dissected but becomes a living presence, something to be felt, struggled with, and ultimately integrated into one’s being. This transition is not merely intellectual but existential, involving the whole person in the act of understanding.

Yet this earnestness of life must also give rise to the earnestness of the concept, which penetrates to the very depths of the matter. While experience is vital, it alone cannot fully grasp the truth. The concept, as the instrument of speculative thought, descends into the essence of the subject, uncovering its inner logic and coherence. This descent into depth transforms mere experience into genuine knowledge, as the concept integrates the particularities of experience into a unified understanding. In this way, the earnestness of life and the earnestness of the concept are not opposed but complementary, each deepening and enriching the other.

When this integration occurs—when the insights gained from lived experience are illuminated by the penetrating clarity of the concept—knowledge and judgment find their proper place in discourse. No longer superficial or disconnected, such knowledge reflects the unity of thought and reality, embodying both the richness of experience and the rigor of conceptual analysis. Judgment, too, attains a new level of seriousness, grounded not in arbitrary opinion or external criteria but in the profound understanding that arises from the interplay of concept and experience.

In this form, discourse becomes a medium through which truth reveals itself, not as a static set of propositions but as a living process. Knowledge is no longer confined to isolated facts or principles but emerges as a dynamic totality, reflecting the depth and complexity of the matter. Judgment, similarly, is no longer a mere assertion of agreement or disagreement but an active engagement with the unfolding of truth, shaped by the dialectical movement of thought.

This progression—from the preparatory stage of education, through the earnestness of lived experience, to the depth of conceptual engagement—represents the true path of philosophical inquiry. It is a path that does not rest at any intermediate stage but continually strives toward the unity of thought and being, of concept and reality. Only in this unity do knowledge and judgment achieve their full significance, becoming expressions of the truth that lies at the heart of both life and philosophy.

The true form in which truth can exist is nothing less than the scientific system of truth. Truth, by its nature, demands coherence, rigor, and completeness—qualities that can only be realized in the systematic unity of science. Philosophy, if it is to fulfill its highest aspirations, must rise to this level, moving beyond fragmented inquiries and provisional understandings to establish itself as an organized and self-contained system. It is only within such a framework that philosophy can articulate the fullness of truth, not as a collection of isolated insights but as an interconnected whole, where each part finds its meaning within the context of the entire structure.

To contribute to this advancement of philosophy—to guide it toward the form of science—is the task I have set for myself. The name “philosophy,” derived from the Greek “love of knowledge,” reflects an earlier stage in its development, when inquiry was driven by the desire to know but had not yet achieved the completeness of actual knowledge. This yearning for understanding, while noble, remains incomplete until it achieves the systematic form that alone can provide a definitive account of truth. Philosophy must strive to shed the provisional character implied by its traditional name and elevate itself to the status of actual knowledge, where the love of knowledge matures into the possession of knowledge in its most rigorous and comprehensive form.

This transformation is not merely a matter of aspiration or preference but arises from the very nature of knowledge itself. The inner necessity that knowledge must become science is rooted in its essence. Knowledge, if it is to be more than opinion or isolated insight, must attain universality and self-sufficiency. It must justify itself not by appealing to external standards or authorities but through the immanent logic of its own development. Science, in this sense, is not merely a method or discipline but the realization of knowledge in its most complete and authentic form.

The necessity for philosophy to take this scientific form is grounded in the dialectical nature of truth. Truth is not static or fragmented; it is a living totality, a dynamic process in which each moment is both distinct and integral to the whole. To grasp truth in its essence, philosophy must reflect this totality in its method and structure. A true science of philosophy would not merely compile facts or concepts; it would present the unfolding of truth as a systematic progression, where each stage arises from the limitations of the previous one and leads to a higher synthesis.

The only satisfying explanation for this necessity lies in the presentation of philosophy itself. Philosophy must demonstrate its scientific nature not through external arguments or justifications but through the way it reveals truth in its own systematic movement. This presentation must embody the principles it seeks to articulate, showing how each concept and determination arises necessarily from the preceding ones, forming a coherent and self-sustaining whole. Only in this way can philosophy achieve the status of science, fulfilling its task of comprehending truth in its true form.

This is the goal to which I dedicate myself: to elevate philosophy to its proper scientific form, to reveal its inner necessity, and to contribute to the realization of truth as a systematic whole. It is not enough for philosophy to remain the “love of knowledge”; it must become knowledge itself, fully actualized and fully justified, capable of standing as a true science among sciences.

The external necessity of elevating philosophy to the form of science—when considered apart from the contingencies of individual motivations or personal aspirations—is not separate from its inner necessity. Rather, it is the external manifestation of the same underlying imperative, expressed in the historical and cultural conditions that give form and existence to the moments of truth in time. These moments are not arbitrary; they are shaped by the dialectical progression of thought and reality, which unfold together in the medium of history. The alignment of external necessity with inner necessity reveals that the drive to elevate philosophy to science is not merely a personal ambition or an isolated intellectual project but an expression of a broader, universal movement.

Time itself plays a decisive role in this process. History, as the stage on which reason manifests, provides the context and conditions for the development of philosophical thought. Each epoch presents its own demands, challenges, and contradictions, creating the conditions for certain ideas to emerge and take form. The form that philosophy assumes at any given moment is shaped by these temporal conditions, yet it also transcends them, expressing the universal truths that lie within the particular circumstances of the age. To demonstrate that the elevation of philosophy to science is timely is, therefore, not simply to situate this endeavor within its historical moment but to reveal its necessity as a culmination of the processes that have brought philosophy to this point.

Such a demonstration would be the only true justification for attempts to achieve this goal. Philosophy, if it is to become science, must not merely declare its necessity but show it, articulating the ways in which the present moment demands and enables this transformation. This is no trivial task, for it requires philosophy to reflect on its own development, to uncover the conditions under which it has operated, and to reveal the ways in which those conditions have prepared the ground for its elevation to science. In doing so, philosophy would not only justify this endeavor but simultaneously bring it to fruition. The recognition of the necessity of this transformation would be inseparable from the act of realizing it.

The relationship between external and inner necessity is key to understanding why this transformation must occur now. External necessity, as expressed in the historical conditions of the age, mirrors the inner necessity of thought itself, which seeks to express truth in its most rigorous and complete form. This alignment is not accidental but reflects the dialectical nature of history, in which the unfolding of reason in thought and the unfolding of reason in reality are intertwined. To recognize this alignment is to see that the elevation of philosophy to science is not an isolated goal but a moment within the larger progression of truth, a moment in which the inner logic of philosophy finds its external expression in the demands of the time.

Thus, the justification for the scientific elevation of philosophy lies not in abstract arguments or individual ambitions but in the recognition of its historical and logical necessity. The time for this transformation is not arbitrary; it is determined by the progression of thought and the unfolding of history, which together create the conditions for philosophy to achieve its true form. By revealing this necessity and responding to it, philosophy fulfills its task, not only comprehending truth but also participating in its realization. This convergence of inner and external necessity brings philosophy to its fulfillment, elevating it to the status of science and securing its place within the living movement of reason.

When the true form of truth is recognized as residing in scientificity—or, what is to say the same thing, when it is asserted that truth finds its element of existence solely in the concept—I am fully aware that this claim appears to stand in direct contradiction to a prevailing conception and the consequences that flow from it. This opposing conception has not only gained significant presumption but has also entrenched itself deeply within the convictions of the age. Its widespread acceptance has lent it an air of inevitability, shaping the intellectual and cultural landscape in ways that obscure the necessity of the scientific form of truth. Given this context, it is neither trivial nor superfluous to address this contradiction explicitly, even if, at this stage, it serves only as an assurance of how the position being opposed can be understood.

This prevailing conception, with its influence and popularity, often presents itself as self-evident, requiring no justification. It may rest on assumptions about the nature of truth that are intuitive yet superficial, emphasizing immediacy over mediation, or subjective feeling over conceptual rigor. Such a stance may regard truth as something that can be grasped directly, without the labor of systematic thought, or as something that resides in individual conviction rather than in the objective unfolding of reason. The widespread acceptance of this view does not make it correct, but it does make it powerful, creating the appearance of a contradiction when the necessity of scientificity is asserted.

To many, the claim that truth exists only in the element of the concept may seem alien, overly abstract, or even elitist, as though it places truth beyond the reach of ordinary experience or common understanding. This reaction stems from a misunderstanding of what is meant by “scientificity” and “concept.” Far from being an imposition or a narrowing of truth, the scientific form is its liberation, for it provides the structure through which truth can be comprehended in its totality. The concept, as the medium of truth, is not a mere abstraction but the vehicle through which the unity of particular and universal, of subjective and objective, is realized.

The contradiction between this view and the prevailing conception is therefore not merely a disagreement over terminology but reflects a deeper divergence in the understanding of truth itself. On one side is the notion of truth as immediate, individual, or intuitive; on the other is the recognition of truth as mediated, universal, and systematic. This divergence is not accidental but rooted in the historical and cultural conditions of the age, which have given rise to a certain resistance to the demands of systematic thought. Addressing this contradiction requires not only an explanation but also a reorientation of how truth is approached, understood, and valued.

Here, however, my aim is more modest. Rather than fully resolving this contradiction, I seek only to provide an assurance that the position I advocate—the elevation of truth to scientificity through the concept—can be understood in light of the position it opposes. This assurance is not intended to dismiss or deny the validity of the opposing view within its own limits but to suggest that it is incomplete, a partial expression of truth that must ultimately be subsumed within the systematic whole. The contradiction, properly understood, is not an obstacle but a moment within the dialectical movement through which truth comes to know itself.

This explanation, then, is not merely a defensive gesture but a step toward reconciliation—a way of showing that the position I advocate does not negate the convictions of the age outright but seeks to comprehend and elevate them within a higher framework. By addressing the contradiction openly, I aim to clarify the stakes of the argument and prepare the ground for the systematic presentation of truth in its true form. Only by engaging with this contradiction can philosophy fulfill its task, not by retreating into the assumptions of the age but by advancing toward the scientificity in which truth finds its ultimate existence.

If it is claimed that the true exists solely in—or, more precisely, solely as—that which is alternately referred to as intuition, immediate knowledge of the Absolute, religion, or pure being, then a fundamental opposition is established to the form of the concept as the mode of presenting philosophy. This view, which sees the Absolute not as something to be comprehended through systematic thought but as something to be felt, intuited, or immediately apprehended, shifts the focus away from conceptual rigor. The Absolute, in this perspective, is not something to be analyzed or articulated but something to be experienced in its raw immediacy, beyond the reach of reason or the mediating structures of thought.

This standpoint demands the rejection of the conceptual form for the presentation of philosophy, insisting instead on a form that privileges the immediacy of feeling or intuition. It regards the conceptual as an imposition, an artificial construct that obscures the purity of the Absolute rather than revealing it. From this vantage, the Absolute is thought to be ineffable, a reality that resists all attempts at definition or systematization. It is not something to be comprehended through the dialectical movement of thought but rather something to be directly encountered, whether in the immediacy of religious experience, the intuitive grasp of its presence, or the mystical sense of unity with being itself.

This view often identifies the Absolute with being—not as being understood through divine love or relational engagement, but as pure being, existing in and of itself. The emphasis here is not on relationality, mediation, or synthesis but on immediacy and presence. It asserts that the true form of philosophical engagement with the Absolute lies not in the concept but in the feeling or intuition of this being. Consequently, philosophy, under this paradigm, is stripped of its scientific ambition and recast as a reflection of subjective experience, where the focus is on expressing the unmediated encounter with the Absolute.

From this perspective, the role of the philosopher is not to articulate the Absolute through logical structures or conceptual frameworks but to provide a medium through which its feeling and intuition are expressed. This approach tends to elevate poetic, religious, or aesthetic forms of expression above systematic philosophy, regarding them as more faithful to the ineffable nature of the Absolute. The Absolute, in this view, is not a subject for thought but a presence to be felt—a truth that lies beyond the reach of reason and can only be accessed through the immediacy of intuition.

While this standpoint has gained considerable traction, it represents a significant departure from the idea of the Absolute as comprehensible through the concept. It challenges the scientific form of philosophy, suggesting that the effort to grasp the Absolute through reason and systematic thought is not only futile but misdirected. Instead of the dialectical unfolding of thought, it demands a retreat into the immediacy of experience, where the Absolute is encountered in its raw and unmediated form.

Yet this position, while offering an alternative vision of how the Absolute might be apprehended, also raises questions about the completeness and coherence of its approach. Can the Absolute truly remain beyond the grasp of thought, or does the act of intuiting it already involve an implicit form of conceptual mediation? Does feeling or intuition, in its immediacy, adequately account for the dynamic and unfolding nature of the Absolute, or does it risk reducing the Absolute to a static presence, severed from its movement and development? These questions point to the tensions within this perspective, which will need to be addressed in the course of a systematic engagement with the nature of the Absolute and the role of the concept in its presentation.

When the emergence of such a demand—for the Absolute to be apprehended through intuition or feeling rather than the concept—is understood within its broader historical and cultural context, and viewed from the standpoint of the stage at which self-conscious spirit presently stands, its deeper significance becomes apparent. Spirit, as the self-developing reality of consciousness, has progressed through stages that reflect its evolving relationship to essence, truth, and itself. What becomes evident is that spirit has moved decisively beyond the substantial life it once led in the element of thought—beyond the immediacy of faith and the unexamined certainty that accompanied it.

In earlier stages of its development, spirit existed in a state of harmony with essence, characterized by an immediacy that required no critical mediation or reflective inquiry. This immediacy was the foundation of faith, a state in which consciousness felt assured of its reconciliation with the essence of reality. Essence, in this context, was not something separate or distant but was experienced as present both within consciousness and in the outer world. Spirit, at this stage, lived in a unity that was felt rather than known—a state where the certainty of reconciliation was unchallenged, and the presence of essence was taken as given.

However, spirit has since moved beyond this stage. The immediacy of faith, with its unreflective certainty, has been transcended, giving way to a new stage characterized by reflection and self-awareness. In this transition, spirit has swung to the opposite extreme: the stage of substance-less reflection into itself. Here, spirit no longer experiences the comforting immediacy of faith or the unity of essence and existence. Instead, it turns inward, retreating into the abstract freedom of self-consciousness. This stage is marked by a sense of alienation, as the assured connection between consciousness and essence dissolves, leaving spirit to confront itself as an isolated, self-reflective subject.

Yet even this stage has been surpassed. Spirit has not remained trapped in the abstraction of substance-less self-reflection, where all connections to essence and reality are severed. Instead, it has moved beyond this extreme as well, seeking a higher synthesis that reconciles the immediacy of its earlier faith with the reflective freedom of its later self-consciousness. This synthesis does not simply return to the earlier state of unmediated unity but incorporates the lessons of reflection, creating a new, mediated unity in which spirit comes to know itself as both substance and subject.

This movement of spirit reflects the dialectical progression through which it comes to understand itself and its relationship to essence. Each stage—whether the substantial immediacy of faith, the alienated reflection of self-consciousness, or the reconciliation that follows—represents a necessary moment in spirit’s development. The demand for the Absolute to be intuited or felt, rather than comprehended through the concept, must be understood within this broader context. It reflects a longing to return to the immediacy of faith, to the simplicity and certainty of a substantial connection to essence. Yet spirit cannot regress; its development moves inexorably forward, and its reconciliation with essence must now take the form of a self-conscious, conceptual unity.

Thus, the surpassing of these earlier stages is not a rejection of their significance but a fulfillment of their potential. Spirit has moved beyond the immediacy of faith and the abstraction of reflection, not to abandon them but to preserve and sublate them in a higher form of unity. This movement is the essence of spirit’s journey, a dynamic progression through which it comes to know itself as the living unity of thought, essence, and existence. It is from this standpoint that the demand for intuition and feeling must be critically evaluated, not as a return to the past but as a moment within the broader unfolding of spirit’s self-conscious reconciliation with truth.

The essential life of spirit is not merely forgotten or obscured—it is consciously lost. Spirit is acutely aware of this loss, and this awareness becomes central to its condition. It recognizes not only the absence of the substantial life it once knew but also the finitude and limitations that now define its content. This self-awareness, far from providing clarity or resolution, deepens its sense of alienation. Spirit sees its current state as impoverished and fragmented, devoid of the fullness and unity it once experienced. This recognition does not bring immediate reconciliation; rather, it intensifies its longing for a return to that earlier condition of wholeness and certainty.

In turning away from what it perceives as the dregs of its current state, spirit acknowledges its wretchedness. This acknowledgment is not merely passive resignation; it is an active lament, an expression of dissatisfaction and despair over the loss of its essential life. Spirit does not merely exist in this wretchedness—it confronts it, reflecting on the gap between its present state and the substantiality it once held. Yet this confrontation, though painful, carries with it the seed of transformation, for it marks the beginning of a demand for something greater.

From philosophy, spirit now demands not so much knowledge of what it is—an abstract understanding of its current state—but a restoration of what it has lost. This demand is not merely for theoretical insight or conceptual clarity but for a return to substantiality and solidity, to a mode of being that feels grounded and whole. Spirit longs for a reconciliation that can reintegrate the fragmented aspects of its existence, restoring the unity and vitality that characterized its essential life. This is not a call for philosophy to reflect spirit’s current condition back to it, but for philosophy to serve as a means of transcendence, a path through which spirit can recover its lost essence.

This demand reflects both the depth of spirit’s despair and the intensity of its hope. In acknowledging its wretchedness, spirit implicitly recognizes the possibility of overcoming it. The very act of lamenting its loss reveals that spirit does not accept its current condition as final; it senses that the life it seeks lies beyond its immediate circumstances. This is where philosophy enters, not as a passive mirror but as an active force that can guide spirit toward the realization of its potential. Philosophy, in this sense, is tasked not merely with interpreting the world or explaining spirit’s alienation but with offering a pathway toward its reconciliation and fulfillment.

The restoration spirit seeks, however, is not a simple return to the immediacy of its earlier life. What is demanded is not a naïve restoration of the past but a higher synthesis that integrates the lessons of its journey. The solidity and substantiality spirit desires cannot be the same as what it once knew, for its development has irrevocably transformed it. The restoration must account for the alienation, the finitude, and the reflection that now constitute spirit’s self-consciousness. It must offer not a static being but a living unity, one that reconciles spirit’s substance with its subjectivity, its being with its thought.

Thus, spirit’s demand from philosophy is profound: it calls for a truth that does not merely describe its fragmented state but actively heals and elevates it. Philosophy is summoned to fulfill its highest task—to serve as the medium through which spirit overcomes its wretchedness and realizes its essential life anew, not as a return to the past but as a forward movement toward the full reconciliation of thought, being, and self-consciousness.

Philosophy, under the weight of such expectations, is not called upon to perform its highest task: to unlock the closed-off nature of substance and elevate it to self-consciousness, revealing its inner necessity and reconciling it with thought. Nor is it asked to guide chaotic and fragmented consciousness back toward the ordered simplicity of the concept, where distinctions are clarified and unified through the dialectical movement of reason. These profound endeavors, which define the true purpose of philosophy, are overshadowed by a very different demand: the call to dissolve the distinctions of thought, suppress the differentiating power of the concept, and reestablish a primal, undifferentiated feeling of essence.

This expectation does not seek insight or understanding, which require the labor of thought and the mediation of the concept. Instead, it asks for edification, a return to a state of immediate unity with the Absolute, unencumbered by the complexities and tensions of reflection. The demand reflects a yearning to bypass the challenges of systematic inquiry and dialectical development, retreating instead to a simpler, more comforting relationship with essence—a relationship characterized by feeling and intuition rather than thought and comprehension.

In this framework, distinctions—those precise and necessary markers of thought—are seen not as tools for uncovering the inner structure of reality but as obstacles that fragment and obscure its essence. The concept, which mediates and synthesizes, is perceived as disruptive, introducing divisions where there should be unity. The desire to suppress the concept is a desire to eliminate the tensions and contradictions inherent in the movement of thought, to return to a state where being is felt as whole and undivided.

Yet such a retreat into feeling risks abandoning the true work of philosophy. The labor of thought, with its careful differentiation and mediation, is not a denial of essence but its revelation. The distinctions of thought do not destroy unity; they make it intelligible, transforming it from a vague immediacy into a comprehended totality. Suppressing the concept may provide temporary comfort, but it leaves the deeper questions unresolved, offering the semblance of reconciliation without its substance.

The call for edification rather than insight reveals a tension between two visions of philosophy. One sees philosophy as a means of achieving understanding, where truth is revealed through the rigorous unfolding of thought. The other seeks philosophy as a source of solace, where truth is felt rather than known, and the complexities of reflection are set aside in favor of an undivided experience of essence. These visions are not easily reconciled, for the former demands the hard work of conceptual engagement, while the latter seeks to bypass it altogether.

Philosophy’s task, however, cannot be reduced to providing edification alone. While the yearning for a direct connection with essence is understandable, it must be recognized as incomplete. Feeling and intuition, though vital as moments of experience, cannot replace the concept’s role in mediating and articulating the truth. Philosophy must rise above the demand for mere edification, fulfilling its role as the science of truth, where distinctions and concepts are not suppressed but elevated into the unity of reason.

In doing so, philosophy does not negate the importance of essence or the value of feeling; rather, it integrates them into a higher synthesis. The feeling of essence becomes richer and more profound when it is illuminated by the clarity of thought, and the distinctions of the concept, far from fragmenting unity, reveal the dynamic and living structure of the whole. Insight and edification are not mutually exclusive; they find their true fulfillment in a philosophy that unites the immediacy of experience with the mediation of reason, offering not only the feeling of truth but its comprehension.

The beautiful, the sacred, the eternal, religion, and love—these are invoked as the alluring bait necessary to awaken the desire for engagement with philosophy. These concepts, rich with emotional resonance and aesthetic appeal, are not called upon as objects of rigorous thought or vehicles for the systematic development of truth but as instruments to inspire and captivate. They serve as a summons to partake, but not in the cold precision of the concept. Instead, it is ecstasy—an unmediated and rapturous encounter with essence—that is sought. This demand does not yearn for the deliberate and measured unfolding of the necessity inherent in the matter itself; rather, it longs for fermenting enthusiasm, a passionate and unrestrained mode of experience, as the means for grasping and spreading the richness of substance.

This perspective prioritizes emotional and experiential immediacy over the labor of thought. The beautiful and the sacred, the eternal and the beloved, are seen not as moments within a dialectical process or as facets of a conceptual totality but as direct points of access to the Absolute. Their role is not to lead to understanding through mediation but to evoke a sense of awe, wonder, and devotion. These are not the tools of analysis but the instruments of inspiration, intended to move the heart rather than engage the mind.

In this mode, the method for unfolding and disseminating the richness of substance is not the rigorous necessity of reason but the intoxicating enthusiasm of an unrestrained emotional response. This enthusiasm is seen as fermenting, dynamic, and transformative, capable of awakening a profound sense of connection to the essence of being. Yet it remains unstructured, prioritizing immediacy and intensity over coherence and clarity. The appeal of such an approach lies in its ability to bypass the perceived coldness of systematic thought, replacing it with a warmth and vitality that seem to offer a more direct engagement with the sacred and eternal.

However, this emphasis on ecstasy and enthusiasm raises significant questions about the nature of truth and its relation to feeling. While the beautiful, the sacred, and love undoubtedly play a vital role in human experience, can they serve as sufficient means for unfolding the richness of substance? Does the fermenting enthusiasm that stirs the heart also have the power to reveal the inner necessity of the Absolute, or does it risk leaving substance fragmented and incomplete, offering only fleeting glimpses of truth without the structure needed to sustain and integrate them?

The alternative to this unstructured ecstasy is the coldly progressing necessity of the concept, which, while less immediately appealing, provides the systematic rigor required to comprehend the richness of substance in its entirety. The “coldness” often associated with the concept is not a denial of warmth or vitality but a reflection of its impartiality and universality. It moves methodically, unfolding the inner logic of the matter itself, ensuring that each moment finds its place within the totality. This progression may lack the immediacy of ecstatic enthusiasm, but it offers a depth and permanence that enthusiasm alone cannot achieve.

True richness lies not in choosing between these approaches but in their reconciliation. The beautiful, the sacred, and the eternal, as well as the enthusiasm they inspire, are not opposed to the concept but find their true fulfillment within it. When illuminated by the necessity of thought, these moments of feeling and ecstasy gain clarity and coherence, becoming more than fleeting experiences. The concept, in turn, is enlivened by the warmth and vitality of these experiences, ensuring that its systematic rigor does not become sterile or detached from the living richness of substance.

Thus, the task of philosophy is not to reject the beautiful, the sacred, or enthusiasm but to integrate them into its unfolding. The fermenting enthusiasm that awakens the desire to partake must be guided by the coldly progressing necessity of the concept, so that the richness of substance can be fully revealed—not as fragmented glimpses but as a coherent, living totality.

This demand aligns with a fervent and often agitated effort to rouse humanity from its deep immersion in the sensory, the mundane, and the particular. It reflects an almost desperate urgency to tear individuals away from their preoccupation with material existence, where life appears to revolve around the fleeting and the trivial, disconnected from higher truths. It seeks to direct their gaze upward, to elevate their awareness toward the infinite and the divine, as though they had entirely forgotten the sacred dimensions of existence. This effort presupposes that humanity has become so entrenched in the immediacy of its earthly concerns that it risks losing all sense of transcendence, finding its satisfaction solely in the base elements of existence—dust and water—like a creature destined to crawl, unable to aspire to anything beyond the ground beneath it.

This image of humanity as a worm—content to burrow in the soil, blind to the stars—captures the existential impoverishment that this demand seeks to address. It paints a picture of life stripped of its higher aspirations, reduced to mere survival and sensory gratification, devoid of reflection on the eternal, the divine, or the infinite possibilities of spirit. Such a life is seen not only as incomplete but as a profound betrayal of the human capacity for transcendence, as though the divine spark within had been extinguished by an unrelenting fixation on the finite and the particular.

The intensity of this effort to awaken humanity from its slumber reflects a deep anxiety about the state of contemporary life. It suggests that people have become so accustomed to the immediacy of their sensory environment that they have forgotten their inherent connection to the divine and the universal. The stars, symbolic of the infinite and the eternal, have ceased to captivate their attention. Instead, their lives are consumed by the pursuit of material comforts and shallow distractions, leaving no space for contemplation, wonder, or the pursuit of higher truths.

This demand, then, is not merely an intellectual endeavor but a call to transformation—a plea for individuals to transcend the limitations of their immediate existence and rediscover their connection to the divine. It seeks to rekindle a sense of awe and reverence, to remind humanity of its capacity to aspire beyond the confines of the mundane and engage with the infinite. The lifting of the gaze to the stars is not just a metaphor for intellectual elevation but a symbolic act of reclaiming the dignity and purpose of human existence, reawakening the spirit to its potential for communion with the divine.

Yet this effort, though noble, also raises important questions about its approach and implications. Can humanity be awakened to the divine merely through fervent agitation, or does such intensity risk alienating those it seeks to uplift? Does this demand, in its zeal to elevate, risk overlooking the value inherent in the sensory and the particular—the very elements of life that, when properly integrated, contribute to the richness of the whole? The challenge lies in finding a balance between transcendence and immanence, between the call to the infinite and the realities of finite existence.

True elevation does not require the rejection of the mundane but its integration into a higher unity. The gaze to the stars is meaningful not because it abandons the earth but because it reveals the connection between the two, uniting the finite and the infinite in a harmonious whole. The divine is not found solely in the heavens but also in the dust and water, transformed by the light of reason and spirit. The task of philosophy, then, is not simply to lift humanity’s gaze but to illuminate the path that connects the stars to the ground, showing that transcendence and immanence are not opposites but moments within the same unfolding truth.

Previously, humanity had adorned the heavens with an immense richness of thoughts and images. The infinite complexities and mysteries of existence were projected onto the celestial realm, where they were given form and meaning. The divine essence was conceived as something transcendent, wholly other, residing beyond the limits of the earthly and the immediate. All that existed in the material world derived its significance from a connection to this higher plane, as though a thread of light extended from the earthly to the heavenly, weaving the mundane into the fabric of the divine. The gaze of the spirit, drawn by this luminous thread, rarely lingered on the present or the worldly. Instead, it slipped beyond, seeking a presence that could only be described as beyond this world, a transcendent reality that gave meaning to all else.

In this earlier stage, the focus of thought and spirit was resolutely turned away from the immediacy of experience and the here and now. The earthly was seen as shadowy, transient, and secondary, valuable only insofar as it pointed toward or participated in the eternal. The eye of the spirit, captivated by the radiance of the supermundane, had to be forcibly redirected toward the earthly realm and held there. This was not an easy or immediate transformation but a deliberate and arduous effort to shift the locus of meaning from the transcendent to the immanent.

The process of reorienting the spirit toward the worldly required an immense expenditure of intellectual and cultural labor. For a long time, clarity and significance were attributes reserved solely for the supermundane, while the earthly was viewed as opaque, confusing, and lacking intrinsic value. The earthly realm was seen as a veil, concealing rather than revealing truth, and it took a profound transformation of thought to begin to recognize the meaning and richness inherent in the worldly itself.

This shift demanded that the dullness and confusion associated with the material world be worked through systematically, infusing it with the clarity and order that had previously been the exclusive domain of the divine. The earthly, previously relegated to a position of inferiority, had to be seen anew—not merely as a shadow of the supermundane but as a realm of its own, filled with significance and worthy of attention. This transformation marked the emergence of a new orientation, one in which the present, the realm of experience, began to be understood as a valid and interesting object of contemplation and inquiry in its own right.

The process of granting the present and the worldly this new status was a lengthy and complex undertaking. It required a reevaluation of the relationship between the earthly and the divine, a movement away from viewing the former as a mere stepping stone to the latter. Instead, the present and the material began to be recognized as arenas in which the divine could manifest, not as a separate realm but as immanent within the world itself. This shift was not merely a redirection of attention but a fundamental reconfiguration of the spirit’s relationship to reality, one that sought to reconcile the transcendent with the immanent, the eternal with the temporal.

This reorientation marked a profound turning point in the history of thought. It was an effort to ground meaning not in a distant heaven but in the richness of lived experience, to see the divine not only as something beyond the world but as something present within it. This transformation did not negate the transcendent but sought to integrate it, weaving it into the fabric of the earthly, so that meaning and significance could be found not only in the stars but also in the soil beneath our feet. Through this long and deliberate process, the realm of experience became a site of profound interest and value, opening the way for new forms of understanding and engagement with the world.

Now, the opposite necessity seems to dominate. Where once the spirit required forceful redirection to recognize the value of the earthly and the present, it now appears so deeply entrenched in the material and the mundane that an equal, if not greater, effort is required to lift it above. The spirit has become so firmly rooted in the finite, so preoccupied with the sensory and immediate, that its connection to the infinite has been nearly severed. In this state, it no longer gazes upward toward the divine but remains fixated on the transient and the tangible, as though the horizon of its aspirations has been irrevocably lowered.

This condition reveals an impoverishment of the spirit, a state so barren that it seems to long, like a wanderer lost in the desert, for even the faintest trace of refreshment. A single sip of water, a fleeting feeling of the divine—these are all it dares to ask for, reduced to seeking only the meager sustenance required to momentarily quench its thirst. This longing for even the smallest taste of the infinite reveals not merely a temporary yearning but a profound and desperate need. The spirit, parched and exhausted, does not seek to overflow with divine abundance but merely to survive, to recover even the faintest whisper of the transcendent in a world that feels devoid of it.

In this state of meagerness—where even the faintest glimmer of the divine seems sufficient to satisfy the spirit—one can measure the magnitude of its loss. The spirit’s willingness to settle for so little is itself an indication of how far it has fallen from its earlier heights. It once adorned the heavens with a vast richness of thoughts and images, immersing itself in the fullness of the divine. Now, that abundance has been replaced by a barren simplicity, where the feeling of the divine, stripped of its depth and vitality, is enough to seem like a gift. This meagerness is not only a symptom of the spirit’s impoverishment but a reflection of the diminished horizon of its aspirations, a stark contrast to the grandeur it once sought.

This loss, however, is not merely a matter of external conditions or historical circumstance—it is an existential deficit, a sign that the spirit has become alienated not only from the divine but also from itself. In its fixation on the earthly, the spirit has forgotten the wellspring of its own vitality, the connection to the infinite that once defined its essence. Its current state, while deeply entrenched, is not sustainable, for the spirit cannot thrive when cut off from the fullness of its potential. The longing for even a meager feeling of the divine is, paradoxically, a sign that the spirit still remembers, however faintly, the richness it has lost. This memory, though painful, may yet serve as the impetus for its renewal.

The challenge now is not merely to lament this loss but to understand it as part of the spirit’s development. The depth of its impoverishment reflects the intensity of its entrenchment in the earthly, but this entrenchment is itself a moment in the dialectical unfolding of its journey. The spirit must confront this meagerness, not to wallow in it, but to recognize the necessity of transcending it. The same force that once directed the spirit toward the earthly must now be turned upward, to reignite its longing for the infinite and restore its connection to the divine. Yet this restoration cannot simply return to the past; it must move forward, integrating the lessons of its immersion in the finite and forging a new synthesis that reconciles the earthly and the infinite, the present and the eternal.

In this effort, the spirit’s current state of longing may serve as both a reminder of what has been lost and a starting point for its renewal. The wanderer in the desert, though parched and weary, still seeks water, and that seeking is itself an expression of life. The spirit’s faint longing for the divine, though meager, is the spark that may yet kindle the flame of its renewal, guiding it toward a richer and more profound understanding of itself and its connection to the infinite.

This contentment in receiving only a meager portion, or the sparingness in what is offered, does not befit the nature of science. True science is neither satisfied with partial truths nor willing to dispense only fragments of understanding. Its aim is not to provide mere edification, nor to indulge those who seek to escape the complexities of life by cloaking the multiplicity of existence and thought in a comforting mist. For those who long for the vague enjoyment of an indeterminate divinity—an undefined sense of transcendence that requires neither effort nor clarity—such desires can easily be fulfilled elsewhere. Countless avenues offer opportunities for self-delusion, for the soothing illusion of elevation without the labor of genuine engagement.

Philosophy, however, stands apart from these pursuits. It must resist the temptation to aim at being merely edifying, for such a goal compromises its integrity. To “edify” in this sense is to console without challenging, to offer an emotional balm that placates but does not transform. This form of edification, while comforting, risks reducing philosophy to a tool for subjective satisfaction, severing it from its true task: the rigorous pursuit of truth. Philosophy cannot allow itself to become a means of indulgence, a source of vague inspiration that avoids the harder work of confronting reality as it is.

Those who seek such edification often desire to escape the multiplicity and complexity of the earthly and the finite. They wish to dissolve the distinctions of thought, to obscure the contradictions and tensions that define existence, and to retreat into a nebulous unity that demands nothing of them. This longing for indeterminate divinity—a divinity felt rather than understood, intuited rather than comprehended—offers a kind of passive transcendence, an elevation that requires no active engagement. Yet such a pursuit, while appealing, is antithetical to the spirit of philosophy, which demands not evasion but confrontation, not vague enjoyment but rigorous understanding.

Philosophy cannot permit itself to become complicit in such self-delusion. Its task is not to obscure but to clarify, not to placate but to challenge. The multiplicity of existence and thought, far from being shrouded in mist, must be illuminated and brought into order. Philosophy does not deny the existence of contradictions or tensions; rather, it embraces them as necessary moments in the dialectical unfolding of truth. Its goal is not to dissolve these tensions in a haze of indeterminacy but to resolve them through the labor of thought, producing a higher unity that retains and integrates the richness of the particular.

Moreover, the task of philosophy is not to provide ready-made comfort but to guide individuals toward a deeper engagement with reality. This engagement requires effort, discipline, and a willingness to grapple with the complexities and contradictions that define existence. Philosophy must insist on clarity and rigor, even when these are difficult or uncomfortable, for it is only through such effort that genuine understanding can be achieved. The path it offers is not one of passive enjoyment but of active participation in the unfolding of truth.

Thus, while edification may have its place in other domains, it cannot be the aim of philosophy. The role of philosophy is not to provide fleeting solace but to elevate the spirit through understanding, to lead it beyond the immediacy of feeling toward the mediated unity of thought and reality. Those who seek merely to feel the divine without understanding it, or who wish to escape the multiplicity of life rather than comprehend it, may find what they seek elsewhere. But philosophy, committed to its true task, must remain steadfast in its dedication to truth—not as a soothing mist, but as a beacon of clarity that illuminates and transforms.

Even less should this contentment, which deliberately renounces science, arrogantly claim that such enthusiasm and obscurity represent something higher than science itself. This view, often couched in a prophetic style of expression, presents itself as dwelling in the very center and depth of reality, as though it has penetrated to the core of truth in a way that systematic thought cannot. It looks disdainfully upon precision, upon the boundaries and determinations that constitute meaningful knowledge, treating these as limitations of thought confined to the realm of finitude. With deliberate distance from the concept and the necessity of reason, it elevates itself above these as though they were mere shallow reflections, unworthy of the “true depth” it claims to embody.

Yet such an attitude is profoundly misguided. Just as there exists an “empty breadth,” so too is there an “empty depth.” Empty breadth dissipates into the finite multiplicity of substance, unable to unify its elements into a coherent whole, scattering itself across endless fragments without the strength to hold them together. In a similar way, this so-called depth, which renounces the concept and necessity, reveals itself to be a contentless intensity—an illusion of profundity that ultimately lacks substance. It pretends to be pure force, an inward power that does not extend outward into the determinations and structures of thought. Yet without expansion, without the capacity to articulate and develop itself, this supposed depth is no different from superficiality.

True depth is not achieved by rejecting precision, the concept, or necessity. Rather, it arises through the rigorous engagement with these very elements. The prophetic style, with its disdain for systematic thought, offers not depth but obscurity. Its refusal to define, clarify, or connect its ideas leaves it suspended in an amorphous state, incapable of grounding its claims in anything substantive. What it calls depth is, in reality, an avoidance of the labor required to produce genuine understanding. It substitutes an aura of mystery for the hard-won clarity that only the concept can provide.

The analogy between empty breadth and empty depth reveals the shared deficiency of these extremes. Empty breadth disperses into the multiplicity of finite things, failing to recognize the unity that binds them together. It mistakes quantity for quality, reducing the infinite to an endless series of disconnected particulars. Empty depth, on the other hand, retreats into itself, refusing to engage with the multiplicity of reality or to articulate its insights in a way that others can comprehend. It mistakes its inward intensity for true profundity, failing to see that depth requires structure, articulation, and relation. Both extremes are incomplete, and both fall short of the demands of science and philosophy.

True depth and true breadth are not opposites but moments within the unity of thought. Depth must articulate itself outward, expanding into breadth through the determinations of the concept, while breadth must ground itself in depth, finding its coherence in the necessity of reason. Substance cannot dissipate into infinite multiplicity without becoming incoherent, and force cannot remain inwardly isolated without becoming impotent. The labor of philosophy lies in uniting these aspects, demonstrating how the infinite unfolds through the finite and how the finite is grounded in the infinite.

The prophetic style, with its disdain for this unity, offers an illusion of transcendence that is, in fact, a retreat into shallowness. It seeks to bypass the demands of thought, mistaking obscurity for profundity and enthusiasm for insight. Yet philosophy cannot accept such shortcuts. Its task is to hold the breadth of existence together with the depth of reason, to integrate multiplicity and unity, and to show that true depth is inseparable from the clarity and necessity of the concept. Anything less is not higher than science—it is a rejection of the very essence of understanding.

The strength of the spirit is measured by the extent of its expression, for it is only in articulating itself that the spirit reveals its true power. Likewise, its depth is only as profound as its willingness to extend itself outward in exposition, risking the vulnerability of losing itself in the process. The spirit does not achieve its fullness by retreating into itself, hoarding its insight in silent isolation. Instead, it must venture into the realm of expression, where its ideas encounter resistance, contradiction, and the challenge of articulation. Only in this dynamic movement, where it risks losing itself in the effort to engage with the multiplicity of thought and reality, does the spirit truly demonstrate its depth and strength.

In contrast, so-called “concept-less substantial knowledge” presents itself as having achieved a higher unity, claiming to have submerged the individuality of the self within the essence of truth. It professes to philosophize truthfully and reverently, suggesting that it has transcended the confines of individuality and subjectivity to commune directly with the Absolute. On the surface, this appears as an act of submission to the divine, a surrender of personal will to the greater truth of essence. Yet this profession of reverence often conceals a very different reality.

Far from genuinely submitting to God or the Absolute, this approach often indulges the arbitrariness of its content or the caprice of its own will. By rejecting the discipline of measure and determination, it evades the demands of the concept and avoids the necessity of engaging with the structured and mediated nature of truth. This rejection of determination is not an act of humility but one of unchecked freedom, where the self refuses to constrain its insights within the bounds of reason or systematization. What appears as reverence is, in fact, a veiled assertion of the self’s autonomy, an unwillingness to subject its insights to the rigor of critique and the discipline of thought.

This arbitrariness often manifests in the content itself, which lacks coherence and consistency, presenting a patchwork of ideas that are neither developed nor justified. The refusal to engage with measure—the principles of order, relation, and necessity—leads to a form of expression that is guided by whim rather than reason. Such knowledge may appear profound in its obscurity, but its lack of structure reveals its superficiality. Truth, in contrast, demands more than intuition or feeling; it requires the self to subordinate its individual impulses to the universality of the concept.

The claim to have transcended individuality, then, is deceptive. In rejecting the concept and necessity, this approach fails to rise above the self and its caprice. Instead of surrendering to the Absolute, it remains ensnared in the subjectivity it professes to renounce. True submission to God or the divine essence involves not the rejection of determination but the embrace of it, for it is through determination that truth reveals itself as a living, mediated totality. To philosophize truthfully and reverently is not to retreat into the comfort of intuition but to engage with the challenges of thought, to subject oneself to the rigor of the concept, and to accept the demands of necessity.

Thus, the strength and depth of the spirit lie not in its ability to avoid risk but in its courage to face it. The spirit must risk losing itself in the process of articulation, for only then can it find itself anew, enriched and expanded by its engagement with the other. Similarly, reverence is not found in the rejection of measure and determination but in the disciplined pursuit of truth, where the self submits to the unfolding logic of the concept. Anything less is not an expression of strength or depth but an evasion, a retreat into arbitrariness disguised as profundity.

By surrendering themselves to the unchecked ferment of substance, these thinkers imagine that in veiling self-consciousness and abandoning the clarity of understanding, they ascend to a higher plane of wisdom. They believe they have joined the ranks of those to whom divine truth is given effortlessly, as though wisdom is a gift bestowed in the stillness of sleep, requiring no labor or wakeful reflection. This perspective assumes that true knowledge is not achieved through the disciplined engagement of thought but through passive receptivity, a state where the barriers of self-consciousness and rational inquiry are dissolved, leaving the mind open to divine inspiration.

Yet what they receive in such a state, and what they ultimately give birth to, are nothing more than dreams. These are not the revelations of divine wisdom but the ephemeral constructs of an unbridled imagination, untethered from the grounding force of reason. In their slumber, they mistake the fleeting images and incoherent fragments of thought for profound insight, confusing the chaotic ferment of substance for the ordered clarity of truth. These dreams, while vivid and compelling in their immediacy, lack the coherence and necessity required to sustain genuine understanding.

The notion of wisdom as a gift received passively during sleep is a comforting illusion, one that spares the thinker from the arduous work of reason. It denies the necessity of struggle, of confronting contradictions, and of the disciplined effort to articulate and integrate thought into a coherent whole. Instead, it elevates passivity to a virtue, suggesting that the abandonment of self-consciousness and understanding is not a failure but a pathway to transcendence. This view, however, underestimates the role of self-conscious thought in the unfolding of truth. True wisdom is not passively given; it is actively realized through the labor of thought, where the spirit engages with itself and with reality in a dialectical process.

The dreams born of this slumber are, in their essence, disconnected from the rigorous demands of science and philosophy. They offer neither the precision of the concept nor the structured unfolding of necessity, instead remaining as isolated impressions, untethered to any systematic unity. While these dreams may provide momentary inspiration or emotional satisfaction, they ultimately fail to grasp the essence of truth. Truth is not an arbitrary image or fleeting intuition but a mediated totality, revealed through the active engagement of thought with the complexities of reality.

By rejecting understanding and veiling self-consciousness, these thinkers not only abandon the tools necessary for grasping truth but also risk reducing the divine to a projection of their own unexamined desires and fantasies. The wisdom they claim to receive in their slumber is not divine revelation but the product of their own unconsciousness, a reflection of their refusal to confront the demands of reason and necessity. In mistaking these dreams for truth, they remain trapped in a state of self-delusion, unable to awaken to the clarity and rigor that genuine wisdom requires.

True wisdom, by contrast, does not emerge from passive receptivity but from active participation in the unfolding of thought. It is born from the interplay of self-consciousness and understanding, where the spirit engages with itself and with the world in a disciplined pursuit of truth. This pursuit requires effort and risk—the willingness to confront the ferment of substance, not as a chaotic force to be surrendered to, but as a dynamic field to be comprehended and integrated through the concept. It is through this labor that wisdom is realized, not as a gift bestowed in sleep but as the hard-won fruit of wakeful and deliberate thought.

It is not difficult to discern that our time stands at the threshold of profound change, a moment of birth and transition into a new epoch. The spirit, as the ever-unfolding reality of thought and being, has broken decisively with the world of its previous existence and representation. The structures, values, and ideas that once defined its reality no longer hold sway over its consciousness; they have been rendered obsolete by the inexorable progression of the spirit itself. What was once the foundation of its understanding has now become a shell, a vestige of an earlier stage that no longer satisfies its need for truth. The spirit, having outgrown these forms, is poised to cast them into the past, engaging with the arduous but necessary labor of their transformation.

This process is not one of mere rejection or destruction but of renewal and reconfiguration. The spirit does not simply discard its previous world but works through it, preserving what is essential while transcending its limitations. This is not a smooth or painless transition but a dialectical movement, marked by tension and contradiction. The old and the new coexist uneasily, as the forms of the past resist their dissolution even as the spirit presses forward into uncharted territory. This labor of transformation is the essence of spirit’s progression, the means by which it realizes itself anew and brings forth the structures that will define the next stage of its development.

Admittedly, the spirit is never at rest. Its nature is not static but dynamic, a continuous process of becoming. It moves forward through the tension between what is and what must be, propelled by the contradictions and inadequacies of its current state. Each stage of its development, though it may appear complete in itself, reveals its limitations over time, giving rise to the necessity of change. This progression is not arbitrary but guided by the inner logic of the spirit itself, which seeks to reconcile its contradictions and achieve ever-higher levels of unity and self-awareness.

The present moment, then, is not an isolated event but part of the spirit’s ongoing journey. It is a turning point, a moment of rupture and renewal that reflects the deeper movement of history and thought. The spirit’s break with its previous world signals the exhaustion of that world’s capacity to express truth and its inability to satisfy the spirit’s expanding needs. What was once sufficient now appears inadequate, and the spirit, in its restless pursuit of truth, is compelled to move beyond it. This compulsion is not imposed from without but arises from within, from the spirit’s own nature as a self-developing totality.

In this transition, the labor of transformation is both necessary and inevitable. The spirit cannot remain confined to the forms of the past, for its essence lies in its progression. Yet this labor is not without struggle, as it demands the dismantling of familiar structures and the creation of new ones. It is a process of destruction and creation, of loss and renewal, through which the spirit redefines itself and its world. This labor is the hallmark of birth—the painful but transformative emergence of something new, something that carries forward the legacy of the past while transcending its limitations.

The recognition of our time as a moment of transition invites us to reflect on our role within this unfolding. The labor of the spirit is not an abstract or impersonal process; it is carried out through the actions, thoughts, and struggles of individuals and communities. To participate in this labor is to engage with the contradictions of the present, to confront the inadequacies of the old while working toward the realization of the new. It is to embrace the spirit’s restless progression, not as a source of anxiety but as a sign of its vitality and the promise of its future.

Thus, the spirit’s break with its previous world is not the end but the beginning of a new chapter in its journey. It reminds us that the restlessness of the spirit, its continuous striving and transformation, is not a flaw but the very essence of its being. In this moment of birth and transition, we witness the power of the spirit to transcend itself, to overcome the limitations of the past, and to move ever closer to the truth that it seeks.

Yet, just as with the birth of a child, where the first breath disrupts the gradual, almost imperceptible process of quiet nourishment in the womb, marking a sudden and qualitative leap into a new mode of existence, so too does the forming spirit transition into its next stage. The spirit, like the maturing child, develops slowly and quietly, preparing itself for transformation. It works patiently toward its new shape, growing within the confines of its current structures until they can no longer contain it. This process, while deliberate and measured, is not without tension, for the spirit’s burgeoning maturity inevitably strains against the limitations of its preceding world.

The transformation of the spirit does not occur abruptly or without warning. Piece by piece, it dismantles the structure of the world it once inhabited, breaking down the forms and ideas that no longer serve its evolving needs. This dismantling is not a conscious act of destruction but an organic process driven by the inadequacies and contradictions that emerge within the existing order. The world that once appeared stable and self-sufficient begins to reveal its instability, not in overt or catastrophic events but through subtle, scattered symptoms that hint at its impending dissolution.

These symptoms take many forms, some almost imperceptible at first. Frivolity creeps into the existing order, as people begin to treat its institutions, traditions, and values with a casual indifference. What was once regarded as sacred or essential becomes trivialized, no longer commanding the same respect or seriousness. Boredom, too, seeps into the fabric of life, reflecting a growing dissatisfaction with the limitations of the current world. This boredom is not mere restlessness but a profound sense of disconnection, a recognition—however faint—that the spirit has outgrown its present circumstances.

Accompanying these signs is a vague premonition of an unknown future. This premonition is neither fully articulated nor understood; it exists as a feeling, a quiet awareness that the current order is no longer sufficient and that something different lies on the horizon. This sense of the future, though undefined, exerts a subtle pressure on the spirit, drawing it forward and preparing it for the leap into its new shape. It is a harbinger of transformation, signaling that the world as it is will soon give way to something else.

This process mirrors the birth of the child, where the quiet nourishment of the womb gives way to the dramatic rupture of birth. The first breath marks a decisive break, a qualitative leap from one mode of existence to another. Similarly, the spirit’s transition to a new shape involves not only gradual maturation but also moments of rupture, where the continuity of its development is punctuated by a sudden reconfiguration. These moments are both the culmination of its slow and steady growth and the beginning of a new stage in its journey.

The signs of this transition—the frivolity, boredom, and premonition—may seem like minor disruptions, but they are profound indicators of a deeper movement. They reveal that the current world, while still outwardly intact, is already being dismantled from within. The spirit, sensing the inadequacy of its present forms, begins to loosen its attachment to them, creating the conditions for their eventual collapse and replacement. What emerges from this process is not merely the destruction of the old but the birth of the new, a world that carries forward the legacy of the past while transcending its limitations.

Thus, the forming spirit does not leap blindly into its new shape; it matures toward it, slowly and quietly, even as it prepares for the dramatic rupture that will mark its birth. This dual movement—of gradual development and sudden transformation—defines the spirit’s progression, revealing the intricate interplay between continuity and change, between the quiet nourishment of growth and the decisive leap into a new mode of being.

This gradual disintegration, though quietly unfolding, often leaves the outward appearance of the whole largely intact, masking the profound shifts occurring beneath the surface. The structures and forms of the preceding world persist for a time, seemingly unaltered, even as their foundations are steadily eroded. The spirit’s dismantling of its previous shape proceeds in this quiet, almost imperceptible manner, giving no immediate indication of the magnitude of the transformation underway. Yet this slow unraveling is suddenly interrupted by the emergence of a new dawn—a decisive moment when the latent forces of change converge and manifest themselves in a singular, dramatic event.

This moment is akin to a lightning flash in the darkness, an instantaneous illumination that reveals, with startling clarity, the contours of a new world. What had been hidden or only vaguely sensed in the quiet labor of disintegration now stands revealed in its fullness. The lightning does not create the new world; it merely unveils what had been forming all along, bringing to light the shape that had been quietly taking form beneath the surface of the old. In this flash, the contradictions and inadequacies of the previous world are laid bare, and the outlines of the spirit’s new shape emerge with undeniable clarity.

This moment of revelation is not merely a rupture but a synthesis, a culmination of the gradual processes that preceded it. The new world, though it appears suddenly, is not an arbitrary creation; it is born of the tensions, struggles, and developments that had been brewing within the old. The disintegration of the previous world was not random or chaotic but necessary, paving the way for the emergence of the new. The lightning flash is the moment when this necessity becomes visible, when the spirit’s labor bears fruit and its next stage becomes apparent.

Yet this moment of clarity is also fleeting, like the lightning that illuminates the landscape for a brief instant before leaving it in darkness once more. The revelation of the new world does not resolve all tensions or contradictions; it merely sets the stage for the labor of building and inhabiting this new reality. The spirit must now engage with the task of bringing the revealed shape into full existence, translating the vision of the new world into the concrete structures and forms that will define its actuality.

This interplay between gradual disintegration and sudden revelation reflects the dual nature of the spirit’s progression. The spirit moves through time in a continuous process of becoming, dismantling the old and preparing the new with a patience that belies the dramatic moments of its transformation. These moments of revelation, while striking, are not interruptions in the spirit’s journey but necessary expressions of its dialectical movement—a movement that oscillates between quiet preparation and sudden illumination, between the steady labor of dissolution and the instant clarity of creation.

In this way, the emergence of a new dawn does not merely signal the end of one world and the beginning of another. It is a reminder of the spirit’s relentless drive to transcend its limitations, to outgrow the forms it once inhabited, and to illuminate the path forward with the light of its own unfolding. The lightning flash reveals not only the contours of the new world but also the spirit’s capacity for renewal, its power to transform and transcend, and its unceasing pursuit of truth.

However, this new entity, no matter how profound its emergence, possesses no more complete reality than that of a newborn child. It is essential not to overlook this point, for its initial appearance represents merely its immediacy or its concept—the first step in a long process of growth and development. This nascent state holds the potential for the fullness of its reality, but it is far from actualizing that potential. Just as a building is far from complete when its foundation has been laid, the achieved concept of the whole is not yet the whole itself. The foundation may outline the structure to come, but it remains an incomplete beginning, requiring sustained labor and time to bring the full edifice into being.

Similarly, when we wish to see the grandeur of an oak tree, with the strength of its trunk, the expansive reach of its branches, and the lush abundance of its foliage, we are not satisfied if we are shown merely an acorn in its place. The acorn, though containing the entirety of the oak in potential, does not yet manifest its fullness. It represents the concept of the tree, but it has not yet undergone the transformations required to realize that concept in actuality. To confuse the acorn with the mature oak is to misunderstand the nature of development, which requires both time and the dialectical labor of unfolding.

This distinction between the immediacy of the concept and the completeness of the whole is crucial. The concept provides the framework, the blueprint of what is to come, but it does not yet encompass the richness, complexity, and concreteness of the fully realized entity. The new entity, like the acorn or the foundation, is a beginning, not an end. It must pass through stages of growth, encountering contradictions and undergoing transformations, before it can reach its full expression. The labor of this progression is not incidental but integral, for it is only through this process that the new entity can actualize itself as a complete and concrete whole.

The impatience to see the whole in its fullness can lead to a dangerous misunderstanding, one that mistakes potential for completion and immediacy for actuality. This misunderstanding risks diminishing the importance of the process, reducing the richness of becoming to a static concept. Yet the beauty and strength of the oak lie not in its acorn but in the journey through which the acorn becomes the tree. The foundation of a building is only the first step toward its completion, and the spirit’s initial emergence into a new epoch is only the concept of that epoch, not its realized form.

To truly grasp the significance of a new entity, one must recognize both its immediacy and its need for development. The concept of the whole is an indispensable starting point, but it is through the labor of realization that the concept becomes the whole itself. This labor is neither automatic nor instantaneous; it requires time, effort, and the interplay of contradictions. The oak must grow, endure storms, and stretch toward the light before it can become what it is destined to be. The foundation must support layer upon layer of construction before the building takes its final form. Likewise, the new entity born in the spirit’s transition to a new epoch must evolve, confronting the challenges and tensions of its unfolding, before it can fully manifest its truth.

Thus, while the emergence of the new is cause for celebration, it must be accompanied by patience and understanding. The immediacy of its appearance is only the beginning of a journey, one that will require time and labor to bring its potential into actuality. To mistake the acorn for the oak is to miss the essence of development, which lies not in the immediacy of the concept but in the fullness of the process through which the concept becomes reality.

Similarly, science—the crown of a world of spirit—is not perfected at its inception. Its beginning, while significant, is only the first stage of an arduous and intricate process. The birth of a new spirit, which lays the foundation for a new epoch of science, is not a sudden or effortless event but the culmination of an extensive upheaval involving diverse and transformative formative processes. It is the reward of a journey marked by countless twists and turns, setbacks and breakthroughs, as well as repeated efforts and exertions. Each moment in this journey contributes to the eventual emergence of science in its mature and perfected form, but no single moment can claim to embody the whole.

The birth of a new spirit arises not from tranquility but from disruption—a profound reordering of thought, experience, and reality. This upheaval is not random chaos but a dialectical process in which contradictions are encountered, struggled with, and resolved, leading to the formation of new structures and understandings. The spirit, in its drive for self-realization, gathers its diverse and often conflicting elements, weaving them into a unity that transcends the fragmentation of the old. The emergence of science as the crown of this process reflects the spirit’s achievement of a systematic and comprehensive understanding of itself and its world.

This achievement, however, does not occur in its fullness at the outset. The newly born spirit represents the whole, but only as a simple concept of itself. It is the whole that has withdrawn into itself, retreating from the multiplicity of its succession and the breadth of its outward extension. This withdrawal does not negate the complexity of the whole but simplifies it, condensing its essence into a unified concept. The spirit’s self-concept, at this stage, is both profound and limited. It holds within it the potential for the full articulation of the whole, but it has yet to expand and unfold into the richness of its concrete reality.

The process of perfecting science mirrors this journey. Science, in its mature form, is the systematic expression of the spirit’s self-understanding, encompassing both the depth of its inward reflection and the breadth of its outward application. Yet at its beginning, science is a seed—a concept that must grow, develop, and expand through the labor of thought and the engagement with reality. This development is not linear or straightforward but marked by challenges and transformations, as the spirit confronts and integrates the contradictions and complexities of its unfolding.

The twists and turns of this path are not obstacles to be avoided but necessary moments in the spirit’s progression. Each effort, no matter how fraught with difficulty, contributes to the maturation of science, refining and enriching its understanding. The spirit’s repeated exertions are not signs of failure but of vitality, reflecting its relentless drive to know itself and to articulate the truth in its fullness. Science, as the crown of a world of spirit, is the product of this ongoing labor, the culmination of the spirit’s journey toward self-comprehension.

Thus, the birth of the new spirit and the emergence of science as its highest expression are inseparable from the path that precedes them. The simple concept of the whole, which marks the spirit’s beginning, is both an end and a new beginning—a point of departure for the labor of realization that will bring its potential into actuality. Science, as the highest form of this realization, must be understood not as a static achievement but as a living process, continually unfolding and perfecting itself in its engagement with the complexities of thought and reality.

In this sense, the birth of science, like the birth of the new spirit, is an invitation to the work of development. It challenges us to move beyond the simplicity of the concept, to engage with the labor of thought, and to participate in the unfolding of truth. The crown of the spirit’s world is not placed upon it at birth but earned through its journey, reflecting the unity of effort and achievement, of concept and realization, that defines the essence of spirit and science alike.

The reality of this simple whole does not lie in its immediate unity or its withdrawal into a condensed concept. Instead, its reality lies in the necessity of its previously formed shapes—those configurations and structures that constituted its earlier stages of development—unfolding and taking shape once again. These shapes, which had initially emerged as independent and complete within the old order, have now been reduced to moments of the whole. They no longer exist in isolation but are subordinated to and integrated within the larger unity of the spirit’s achieved meaning.

This reemergence, however, does not simply replicate the earlier forms. These shapes must now reappear within a new element—the element of their achieved meaning. The substance they once represented is no longer immediate or self-contained; it has been transformed through the spirit’s labor, stripped of its earlier independence and recast within the conceptual framework of the whole. What was once an autonomous form now exists as a moment within a greater totality, retaining its particularity while contributing to the unity of the whole.

This process of unfolding is not a regression to the past but a rearticulation of it. The forms and shapes of the previous world are preserved, but they are not preserved as they were. Instead, they are elevated, reconfigured to express their true significance within the new context of the spirit’s development. What had been partial and fragmented is now seen in its proper place, as a necessary moment within the self-realizing totality of the spirit. In this way, the new whole does not reject or discard its history but integrates and transforms it, making the past meaningful within the present.

The rearticulation of these shapes is both necessary and dynamic. It reflects the dialectical nature of the spirit’s progression, where each moment, no matter how complete it may have seemed in its original emergence, is revealed to be incomplete when viewed from the perspective of the whole. The earlier forms, once rigid and self-contained, must now be reimagined as fluid and interdependent, contributing to the living movement of the whole. Their unfolding within the new element is not merely a repetition but a deepening, a process through which their meaning is fully realized.

This necessity arises from the very nature of the whole, which is not static but active, not a fixed structure but a dynamic process. The whole achieves its reality not by resting in its simplicity but by expressing itself through the differentiation and reintegration of its moments. The earlier shapes, now reduced to moments, are the means by which the whole unfolds, giving concrete form to its abstract unity. Without this process, the whole would remain an empty concept, a potentiality unrealized and incomplete.

Thus, the unfolding of these shapes within their new element is both a reaffirmation of their importance and a transformation of their role. They no longer exist for themselves but for the whole, their independence subsumed within the unity of the spirit’s achieved meaning. This subsumption, however, does not diminish their significance; rather, it elevates them, allowing their true meaning to emerge within the context of the whole. The spirit, in this process, realizes its reality not by abandoning its past but by reconfiguring it, giving new life and purpose to the forms that had previously defined it.

In this way, the reality of the simple whole is revealed not in its abstraction but in its movement, in the unfolding and rearticulation of its moments within the element of their achieved meaning. This process is the labor of the spirit, the means by which it actualizes itself and gives expression to the fullness of its truth. The new whole is not merely a synthesis of its past but a living totality, one that integrates and transcends its earlier forms, making them part of the unified movement toward its ultimate realization.

On the one hand, the initial appearance of the new world is nothing more than the whole concealed in its simplicity—a general foundation that holds the potential for the fully articulated reality yet to come. This simplicity, while containing the essence of the whole, lacks the differentiation and richness that will eventually define it. In this stage, the new world exists as a unified concept, a seed containing the structure and dynamics of the totality but not yet unfolded into its diverse forms. It is the bare beginning, where the contours of what will be are present only implicitly, waiting for the labor of realization to bring them into clear and distinct expression.

On the other hand, the richness of the previous existence remains vivid and present for consciousness, carried forward as memory. This memory is not merely a passive recollection but an active presence, influencing how the new world is apprehended and understood. The forms and meanings of the old world, though no longer sufficient to define the spirit’s current stage, linger as traces, offering both continuity and contrast. They serve as the backdrop against which the simplicity of the new whole appears stark and unfamiliar, highlighting what has been left behind and what has yet to be realized.

This duality—of the new world as a simple foundation and the old world as a rich and complex memory—creates a tension within consciousness. The spirit, while oriented toward the future, cannot fully sever itself from its past. The previous existence, with all its multiplicity and depth, remains a source of meaning and identity, even as the inadequacies of its forms become increasingly apparent. Memory preserves the richness of the past, but it also reminds the spirit of the limitations it has outgrown, creating a sense of longing for both the lost wholeness and the potential of the new.

For the spirit, this tension is a necessary moment in its development. The simplicity of the new world must confront the richness of the old, integrating what is essential from the past while shedding what no longer serves. This process of integration is not immediate or straightforward; it involves a dialectical movement in which the past is both preserved and transcended. The memory of the old world becomes a reservoir of meaning, a source from which the new world draws to enrich and articulate its own reality.

Yet, the simplicity of the new world, far from being a limitation, is the condition for its unfolding. In its initial appearance, the new world is stripped of the excess and complexity of the past, reduced to its essential foundation. This simplicity allows for the reconstitution of its richness, not as a mere repetition of the old but as a transformation that reflects the spirit’s progression. The new world must first exist as a unified concept, a point of origin from which its diversity and depth can emerge through the labor of thought and experience.

The interplay between the simplicity of the new and the richness of the old reflects the dynamic nature of the spirit’s journey. The new world is not created in isolation but arises out of the old, carrying forward its essence while reshaping its forms. Memory, in this context, is not a burden but a bridge, connecting the spirit’s past and future in a continuous process of becoming. It ensures that the new world is not a rupture but a renewal, a rearticulation of the whole that honors its history while transcending its limitations.

Thus, the initial simplicity of the new world and the richness of the old existence are not opposites but moments within the same movement. The spirit, in navigating this tension, finds its reality not in the immediate presence of either but in the process of their reconciliation—a process through which the new world unfolds its potential, drawing upon the depth of memory to realize its true and complete form.

The newly emerging form, in its nascent state, is marked by an absence that cannot be overlooked. It lacks the breadth and particularization of content, the rich diversity and articulation necessary to fully express its essence. Even more critically, it misses the development of its form—the process by which distinctions are made clear, securely determined, and ordered into stable, intelligible relations. Without this essential development, the emerging form remains incomplete, a potentiality rather than a fully realized actuality.

This underdeveloped state poses a significant limitation for science. Science, in its mature form, demands universality and comprehensibility, qualities that make it accessible and meaningful to all. Yet, without the unfolding and articulation of its form, science appears fragmented, its truths scattered and unintegrated. It risks being perceived not as a universal endeavor but as an esoteric possession—a body of knowledge confined to a select few who have the capacity to intuit or grasp its unexpanded essence.

This esoteric nature arises because the new form, at this stage, exists primarily as its concept or inner essence. It has not yet extended itself outward, unfolding its content into the particular forms and stable structures that would make it universally comprehensible. As a result, its manifestation remains limited, constrained to its abstract potential rather than its realized actuality. In this state, the form is intelligible only to a few individuals, those who are uniquely equipped to apprehend its undeveloped essence. Their understanding, however, is shaped by its particularity, as the universal remains concealed, waiting for the labor of development to bring it to light.

The consequence of this limitation is twofold. On the one hand, science, in its unexpanded form, risks being misunderstood or disregarded by the broader community, its truths hidden behind a veil of abstraction. On the other hand, the individuals who grasp its concept are themselves restricted, unable to share their understanding in a way that integrates the universal with the particular. The absence of form development prevents science from achieving its purpose as a universal mode of thought, a system in which distinctions are articulated and ordered into a coherent whole that can be comprehended and engaged with by all.

The development of form is therefore not an incidental task but an essential one. It is through this process that science transcends its initial abstraction, unfolding its inner essence into a rich and articulated totality. This involves both the differentiation of content—where particular elements are brought into clear and meaningful relation—and the stabilization of those relations into a coherent system. Only then can science fulfill its universal aspirations, moving from an esoteric possession of a few to a universal possession of all, a shared framework in which truth is not only conceived but communicated.

The necessity of this development reflects the nature of science itself. Science is not merely the preservation of a concept but the active process of its realization. It must move beyond the inwardness of its initial form, extending itself into the multiplicity of distinctions that constitute its content. Each distinction, while particular, contributes to the universal structure, and each relation, while specific, reflects the unity of the whole. This movement from concept to fully articulated system is what enables science to become truly universal, a living totality accessible to all who engage with it.

Thus, while the initial emergence of the new form holds great promise, it remains incomplete without the labor of development. Science cannot remain an abstract potential or an esoteric possession; it must expand and articulate itself, integrating its inner essence with the particularity and breadth of its content. Only then can it achieve the universality that defines its true purpose, transforming from the possession of a few into the shared understanding of the many, and from a concept into a comprehensive and concrete reality.

Only that which is fully determined—clearly articulated and thoroughly developed—can truly become exoteric, comprehensible, and capable of being learned. It is only in this fully articulated state that something can transition from the realm of private insight or esoteric possession into the shared property of all. Science, in its intelligible form, offers precisely this: a path that is open to everyone, accessible not only to the few who might intuit its essence in abstraction but to all who are willing to engage with its clarity and rigor. This path, in its universality, is the bridge between the particularities of individual understanding and the shared comprehensibility of rational knowledge.

The intelligibility of science ensures that its truths are not cloaked in mystery or obscurity but are presented in a form that invites understanding and engagement. This intelligibility is what makes science democratic, an endeavor not reserved for a select elite but offered equally to all who seek to traverse its path. It is not the absence of complexity that makes science accessible but the clarity with which it unfolds its content and the rigor with which it organizes its distinctions. Through this process, science becomes exoteric, capable of being learned and internalized by anyone who approaches it with the willingness to think.

The demand to reach rational knowledge through understanding is both the natural and the rightful expectation of consciousness as it approaches science. Understanding is not an external or arbitrary faculty but the very essence of thinking itself. It is the activity of the pure “I,” the universal aspect of consciousness that seeks coherence, clarity, and necessity in its engagement with the world. For understanding, the intelligible is what is already familiar in essence—a shared ground that unites science and unscientific consciousness. This shared ground is what makes the transition from unscientific consciousness to scientific thought not only possible but inevitable, provided the path is made clear.

Understanding functions as the bridge between the everyday consciousness that operates in the realm of the familiar and the higher, more rigorous consciousness demanded by science. It is through understanding that unscientific consciousness recognizes itself within science, finding in its intelligible form a reflection of its own striving for clarity and order. The intelligible is the common thread that connects the two, enabling the unscientific to transition into the scientific without an insurmountable rupture. This transition is not a leap into the unknown but a movement into a more comprehensive and articulated expression of what consciousness already seeks.

This interplay between understanding and science is what grounds the accessibility of science. Science does not exist in a vacuum, disconnected from the everyday processes of thought. Instead, it arises from and builds upon the structures of understanding that are already present in unscientific consciousness. By refining and extending these structures, science transforms the familiar into the universal, the immediate into the mediated, and the intuitive into the systematic. This process ensures that science remains intelligible, not as a concession to simplicity but as a means of fulfilling its purpose as a universal endeavor.

The openness of science to understanding reflects its ultimate goal: the reconciliation of thought with reality. It is through understanding that science achieves its exoteric character, allowing its truths to be shared, learned, and internalized. This shared accessibility is not a dilution of science’s rigor but a testament to its universality. By making itself comprehensible, science fulfills its role as the highest expression of rational knowledge, accessible to all who are willing to engage with its path.

Thus, the demand of consciousness to reach rational knowledge through understanding is not an imposition upon science but an essential part of its nature. Science must not retreat into esotericism or abstraction but must continually articulate itself in ways that allow unscientific consciousness to recognize its truths and transition into its framework. In doing so, science becomes not only the property of all but also the highest expression of thought itself, uniting the intelligible with the universal in a shared pursuit of knowledge.

Science, in its initial stages, is inevitably marked by incompleteness. As it begins to emerge, it has not yet achieved the full breadth of detailed articulation or the refinement and perfection of its form. This nascent state renders science vulnerable to criticism, often directed at these apparent shortcomings. Such criticism, while perhaps understandable, fails to appreciate the nature of science as a developing process. It overlooks the fact that science, like any living and evolving endeavor, cannot begin in a state of perfection. Instead, it must grow through the labor of articulation, clarification, and refinement.

However, if this criticism extends beyond the recognition of these initial imperfections to an attack on the essence of science itself, it becomes fundamentally unjust. To dismiss the essence of science because it has not yet achieved its full development is to misunderstand its nature as a dynamic process of becoming. The demand for completeness and perfection, while legitimate, must be tempered by an understanding of the time and effort required to achieve them. The early stages of science should not be judged as if they were its final form; rather, they should be seen as necessary beginnings, laying the foundation for the richer, more articulated whole that will emerge over time.

This tension—between the legitimate demand for development and the premature criticism of science’s essence—reflects a deeper issue that lies at the heart of contemporary scientific education. It reveals a struggle to reconcile two opposing attitudes: on the one hand, the recognition of science’s potential and the demand for its full realization; on the other hand, the tendency to dismiss or undervalue science in its nascent state because it falls short of an idealized standard. This unresolved tension creates a lack of clarity in how science is understood and valued, both as an emerging discipline and as a fundamental endeavor of human thought.

The struggle within contemporary scientific education is not merely a practical matter but a philosophical one. It concerns the relationship between science’s essence—its striving for universal and systematic knowledge—and the inevitable imperfections of its initial articulation. Education must grapple with the challenge of fostering a respect for science’s potential while acknowledging the incompleteness of its present form. This requires a nuanced understanding that embraces both the promise of science and the labor necessary to fulfill it, recognizing that its early stages are not failures but integral moments in its development.

Criticism, when constructive, plays a vital role in this process, providing the impetus for refinement and improvement. However, when it becomes dismissive or hostile, it risks stifling the very growth it seeks to encourage. Such criticism fails to recognize that the imperfections of nascent science are not indicative of its inadequacy but of its vitality. They are the signs of an endeavor in motion, one that is actively working to articulate its essence and achieve its goals. To criticize science at this stage without acknowledging its potential is to reject the process of development itself, demanding a completeness that can only emerge through time and effort.

This opposition—between the demand for development and the dismissal of what is not yet complete—thus emerges as a central issue in contemporary scientific education. It reflects a broader lack of clarity about the nature of science and its role in human thought. Science is not a static achievement but a dynamic process, one that requires both patience and perseverance. Its essence lies in its movement, in its capacity to grow, refine, and expand. To engage with science is to participate in this process, to recognize that its imperfections are not obstacles but opportunities for further development.

In this light, the struggle within scientific education is not merely a question of content or method but of attitude. It requires a willingness to embrace science in its becoming, to support its labor of articulation, and to celebrate its potential even in its earliest and most imperfect stages. Only by reconciling the legitimate demand for development with an appreciation of science’s essence can education fulfill its role, fostering a deeper understanding of science as both a process and a promise, an unfolding journey toward the truth.

One side of this debate places its emphasis on the richness of material and the comprehensibility of science. It insists that science, to fulfill its universal purpose, must articulate its truths in a way that makes them accessible and meaningful to all. This side values the detailed particularization of content and the development of systematic relationships that ensure clarity and shared understanding. It argues that without such comprehensibility, science risks becoming opaque, an exclusive domain rather than a universal endeavor.

The other side, however, often dismisses these concerns, advocating instead for an insistence on immediate rationality and divinity. For this perspective, the focus lies not on the detailed articulation of content or the accessibility of form but on the immediacy of insight and the direct apprehension of the Absolute. It emphasizes the primacy of rational essence and divine truth, suggesting that the labor of comprehensibility and material richness is secondary—or even irrelevant—to the ultimate task of science. For this side, the pursuit of clarity and accessibility may appear as distractions, diluting the purity of immediate rationality.

Even if the first side—the advocates for material richness and comprehensibility—is silenced, whether by the compelling force of truth itself or by the sheer vehemence with which the other side asserts its position, the underlying tension does not dissipate. The silencing of these concerns does not resolve them; instead, it leaves a lingering dissatisfaction. Those who emphasize comprehensibility and richness may feel overpowered when it comes to the fundamental issue—the nature of rationality and divinity—but their dissatisfaction persists regarding the demands they raised.

This dissatisfaction arises because these demands are not arbitrary or trivial. They reflect essential aspects of science’s purpose: its aspiration to articulate the fullness of reality and its commitment to being universally accessible. To insist on comprehensibility is to demand that science not retreat into esotericism or abstraction but remain grounded in a form that can engage and educate all who approach it. Similarly, the call for richness of material reflects the need for science to encompass the diversity and complexity of existence, ensuring that its truths are not reduced to mere abstractions but are rooted in the particulars of experience.

The tension between these perspectives highlights a deeper struggle within the development of science. On the one hand, the demand for immediate rationality and divinity points to the necessity of grasping the essential unity and coherence of truth, which cannot be reduced to a collection of particulars. On the other hand, the insistence on comprehensibility and material richness displays the equally vital need for science to articulate this unity in a way that is detailed, concrete, and accessible. These demands, though seemingly opposed, are not mutually exclusive; they represent different aspects of the same endeavor.

The dissatisfaction of the first side, even in silence, serves as a reminder that neither perspective can fully satisfy the demands of science in isolation. A science that prioritizes immediate rationality to the exclusion of comprehensibility risks alienating the very consciousness it seeks to elevate. Conversely, a science that focuses solely on material richness and clarity without addressing the deeper unity of rationality and divinity risks becoming fragmented, losing sight of the whole.

The challenge, therefore, lies in reconciling these demands. Science must find a way to honor both the immediacy of rational insight and the necessity of comprehensibility and richness. It must articulate its truths in a way that preserves their depth and unity while also making them accessible and meaningful to all. This reconciliation is not a compromise but an integration, a dialectical movement through which the opposing demands are sublated into a higher unity. Only in this way can science fulfill its purpose, transcending the limitations of either side to become a true expression of the universal.

These demands—for the richness of material and the comprehensibility of science—are entirely justified but remain unfulfilled. They are not arbitrary complaints but stem from essential aspects of science’s mission: its need to articulate the fullness of reality and to make its truths accessible and meaningful to all. Yet, despite their legitimacy, these demands have not been adequately addressed, leaving a lingering sense of incompleteness and dissatisfaction.

The silence of this side—the advocates for comprehensibility and richness—can be attributed partly to the perceived triumph of the opposing perspective. The insistence on immediate rationality and divinity often dominates the discourse, asserting itself with a force that appears to overshadow the concerns of accessibility and detail. Those who champion the latter demands may feel marginalized, as though their position has been overpowered by the weight of the other side’s argument or by the sheer vehemence with which it is advanced.

However, this silence is not due solely to defeat in the face of opposition. It is also partly born of a deeper, more insidious cause: the boredom and indifference that often emerge in the wake of perpetually heightened expectations and the repeated failure of promises to be realized. When demands are raised again and again, with no tangible progress or fulfillment, they begin to lose their urgency. The advocates, worn down by disappointment, may retreat into apathy, feeling that their efforts are futile. This cycle of expectation and unfulfilled promise erodes both enthusiasm and resolve, replacing them with resignation and disinterest.

This dynamic is further exacerbated by the nature of the demands themselves, which are not easily or quickly satisfied. The development of science as a fully articulated and universally comprehensible endeavor is a monumental task, requiring sustained effort over time. When progress is slow or imperceptible, the initial fervor of those advocating for these demands may give way to frustration. Over time, frustration turns to boredom, as the absence of visible results diminishes the sense of purpose and possibility. The repeated failure to realize these promises fosters indifference, as hope for their fulfillment fades.

Yet this boredom and indifference are not indications that the demands themselves are misplaced or irrelevant. Rather, they reflect the challenges inherent in the process of bringing them to fruition. The tension between the justified nature of these demands and their persistent unfulfillment highlights the need for renewed effort and clarity in addressing them. It is not enough for science to acknowledge the importance of comprehensibility and richness; it must actively work to realize them, integrating these demands into its ongoing development.

The silence of this side, then, should not be mistaken for acquiescence or agreement with the triumph of the opposing perspective. It is a silence born of weariness, not resolution, and it serves as a reminder of the unfulfilled potential of science. The boredom and indifference that have taken root are not final; they can be overcome through a reinvigoration of purpose and a renewed commitment to the demands that remain unmet. This requires not only addressing the shortcomings of the current state of science but also fostering a broader understanding of the interplay between immediacy and comprehensibility, between the depth of rational insight and the richness of articulated detail.

By recognizing the legitimacy of these demands and the reasons for their persistent unfulfillment, science can begin to bridge the divide between the opposing sides. This process will require patience, persistence, and the willingness to confront the frustrations and disappointments of the past. But it is only through this effort that the potential of science can be fully realized, satisfying both the demand for universal accessibility and the aspiration for profound rational insight.

Regarding content, some approach their task in a way that makes it relatively easy to achieve the appearance of accomplishment, occasionally boasting of a great breadth of material as evidence of their intellectual mastery. They draw into their domain an extensive array of materials, relying heavily on what is already known, categorized, and ordered within the established fields of knowledge. This appropriation of pre-existing content lends their work an air of comprehensiveness, as though they have encompassed a vast intellectual territory and integrated it into their perspective.

Their focus, however, often gravitates toward peculiarities and curiosities—those elements of knowledge that, while intriguing, are not central to the core development of their subject. By concentrating on these marginal details, they give the impression of meticulousness and breadth, as though they have left no stone unturned. In doing so, they appear to command the rest of what knowledge in their domain has already achieved, positioning themselves as the inheritors and organizers of its totality.

At the same time, they present themselves as masters of what remains unorganized—those aspects of knowledge that have not yet been systematically integrated into a coherent whole. By extending their efforts to these unstructured areas, they claim to subject even the unordered and fragmented elements of thought to the absolute idea. This gesture gives the impression that the absolute has been recognized in all things, as if every fragment of knowledge, whether ordered or chaotic, has been drawn into the light of a universal principle.

The result is an appearance of an expansive science, one in which the absolute idea seems to have developed fully, encompassing the breadth of human knowledge and ordering it into a unified system. This presentation suggests that every aspect of reality has been subjected to the scrutiny of the absolute, that no domain has been left untouched by its reach. The breadth of material, combined with the assertion of systematic integration, lends an air of finality and completeness to their work.

Yet this approach, while impressive in its scope, raises critical questions about the depth and authenticity of its achievements. The reliance on pre-existing knowledge and the focus on peculiarities may obscure the absence of genuine development or originality. The apparent mastery of unorganized material may mask a superficial application of the absolute idea, one that imposes a semblance of order without truly penetrating the essence of the content. The expansive science that results may be broad, but it risks being shallow, lacking the rigorous internal development that characterizes true systematic thought.

To truly subject everything to the absolute idea requires more than a mere assertion of its presence in all things. It demands the labor of thought, the process of unfolding and articulating the absolute in a way that reveals its inner necessity and coherence within the diversity of material. This task is far more demanding than the aggregation of pre-existing knowledge or the imposition of superficial order. It requires the integration of breadth and depth, ensuring that the absolute idea is not merely applied but genuinely realized in the content it engages.

Thus, while the approach of appropriating and ordering vast arrays of material may produce the appearance of a comprehensive science, it remains insufficient if it does not engage in the deeper work of development. The absolute idea cannot simply appear to be present in all things; it must be shown to unfold and articulate itself within them, demonstrating its necessity and universality. Without this genuine development, the expansive science risks becoming an illusion of completeness, one that satisfies the demand for breadth but fails to achieve the depth required for true knowledge.

Upon closer examination, however, the much-vaunted breadth of such work reveals itself as less impressive than it initially appears. It is not the product of a single principle genuinely manifesting itself in diverse and dynamic forms, unfolding its essence through a coherent and necessary process. Instead, it becomes evident that this breadth is little more than a shapeless repetition of the same formula, applied externally and indiscriminately to various materials. What is presented as richness and diversity is, in reality, a monotonous proliferation of the same underlying framework, mechanically imposed on different content without undergoing any substantive transformation or development.

This approach creates the tedious illusion of diversity, as though the variety of material reflects the internal dynamism of a principle coming into its own. In truth, this repetition merely disguises the lack of genuine movement or creativity. The same formula is reproduced over and over, resulting in a superficial semblance of progress that fails to engage with the depth and complexity of the subject matter. The principle at play, though perhaps true in itself, remains static and undeveloped, confined to the narrow scope of its initial articulation.

The perpetual repetition of the same idea, applied without differentiation or deeper integration, undermines its potential for genuine development. Rather than evolving and expanding through the dialectical movement of its own necessity, the idea stagnates, always returning to its starting point. Its engagement with diverse material does not lead to the enrichment of the principle or the unveiling of new dimensions of its truth. Instead, the principle remains trapped in a circular pattern, endlessly reiterating itself without advancing toward a fuller or more concrete realization.

This lack of development is not merely an aesthetic or procedural failing but a fundamental limitation. A principle that does not unfold itself in response to the diversity of material cannot claim to be truly universal or comprehensive. Its inability to generate new forms from its own inner logic reveals its insufficiency, reducing its application to a mechanical exercise rather than a living, self-realizing process. The result is a kind of intellectual sterility, where the promise of the idea’s potential remains unfulfilled, its richness and depth obscured by the tedium of its repetitive application.

The failure to develop beyond this repetition leaves the idea perpetually at its beginning. It does not progress toward greater articulation or complexity but remains stuck in its most rudimentary form. This stagnation diminishes the power and scope of the idea, rendering it incapable of addressing the full breadth of reality or engaging with the deeper contradictions and tensions that drive genuine thought. The principle, though true in itself, becomes lifeless when reduced to such mechanical reiteration, losing its capacity to illuminate the richness and complexity of the material it seeks to encompass.

True breadth, by contrast, arises from the active unfolding of a principle through the diversity of forms and content, where each moment of its development reveals a new aspect of its truth. This process is not a simple repetition of the same but a dynamic progression in which the idea transforms and enriches itself, integrating the particularities of material into the unity of its concept. In this movement, the idea does not remain at its beginning but advances toward a comprehensive realization, demonstrating its universality and necessity.

The challenge, then, is to move beyond the illusion of diversity created by repetition and to embrace the labor of genuine development. This requires a willingness to engage with the material not as an external domain to be subsumed under a static formula but as an integral part of the principle’s self-realization. Only through this dialectical process can the idea fulfill its potential, breaking free from the confines of repetition and achieving the dynamic richness that defines true science.

The single, unchanging form is imposed by the knowing subject onto the existing material, with the material being externally subsumed into this static and unaltered element. This process, rather than engaging dynamically with the content, treats the material as something inert, to be simply absorbed into the rigid framework provided by the subject. The form itself remains untouched, failing to adapt, evolve, or differentiate in response to the particularities of the material. Instead of a living process of mutual transformation—where the form reshapes itself through its engagement with the content—this approach results in a superficial application that leaves both elements fundamentally unchanged.

Such a method fails to satisfy the legitimate demand for the self-originating richness and self-determining differentiation of forms. True development requires that forms arise from within the material itself, shaped by its inner logic and necessity, rather than being externally imposed. The richness of thought and its articulation must emerge through the dialectical interplay between the form and the content, where each informs and transforms the other. This static, external imposition achieves no such thing. It is as deficient in addressing the intrinsic potential of the material as arbitrary notions about the content would be, reducing the act of knowing to a mechanical exercise rather than a dynamic engagement with reality.

What results from this approach is a monotonous formalism, where the appearance of diversity is merely a product of the material itself, not the creative interplay of form and content. The differences in content that this formalism appears to generate are not the result of the form’s dynamic engagement with the material but are already present within the material itself, which has been pre-prepared and made familiar. The form contributes nothing new; it merely provides a static lens through which the pre-existing differences are viewed, offering no genuine development or enrichment.

This static approach not only impoverishes the process of knowledge but also diminishes the vitality of the material. By treating the content as something to be passively absorbed, it fails to recognize the material as an active participant in the unfolding of thought. The richness and particularity of the material are flattened, reduced to mere examples of an unchanging formal principle. The form, in turn, becomes sterile, incapable of growth or differentiation because it is never challenged or shaped by the content it seeks to encompass.

Such formalism undermines the very essence of scientific or philosophical inquiry, which demands the self-determining differentiation of forms and the integration of material into a coherent and dynamic system. The true task of science is not to impose a static form onto familiar material but to engage in a process of mutual transformation, where the form evolves in response to the material and the material is illuminated through the development of the form. This interplay creates the self-originating richness that distinguishes genuine knowledge from mere repetition or superficial categorization.

The failure of this static approach lies in its refusal to embrace the dynamic nature of thought, where form and content are not separate but interdependent. A form that remains static and unchanging is incapable of truly comprehending the content it seeks to organize, just as a material that is treated as passive cannot contribute to the vitality of the form. Genuine understanding requires a dialectical movement in which the distinctions within the material are drawn out, clarified, and integrated into the form, which must itself expand and adapt in response to these distinctions.

In contrast to this monotonous formalism, the true development of knowledge requires an active engagement that respects the richness of the material and the transformative potential of the form. It is only through this dynamic process that differences in content can be meaningfully articulated and integrated into a living whole, fulfilling the demand for self-determining differentiation and the self-originating richness that define true thought.

In this context, such an approach elevates monotony and abstract generality to the status of the absolute, asserting them as the ultimate standpoint of thought. It claims that any dissatisfaction with this approach arises not from legitimate concerns about its inadequacies but from an inability to grasp and maintain the so-called absolute perspective. This assertion effectively deflects critique, casting doubt on the intellectual capacity of those who question it rather than addressing the validity of their objections. Monotony and abstraction are thus shielded from scrutiny, presented as the pinnacle of understanding, while the dynamic and differentiated movement of thought is dismissed as an inability to adhere to the supposed absolute.

Historically, the mere possibility of imagining something differently was often deemed sufficient to refute an idea. This reliance on abstract potentiality rather than substantive critique reduced the rigor of thought to a game of hypothetical alternatives, where the mere suggestion of a different perspective carried as much weight as the established idea itself. In such cases, abstract generality—a possibility untested by reality or necessity—was granted the full positive value of actual knowledge. The result was a superficiality in which form overshadowed content, and the dialectical unfolding of thought was stifled by the ease of hypothetical negation.

A similar phenomenon is at play in this contemporary approach, where all value is again attributed to the general idea, now in its form of unreality. The abstract generality is celebrated not as a dynamic principle capable of generating concrete determinations but as a static endpoint, removed from the labor of differentiation and articulation. This empty universality, which exists without formulating distinctions or engaging with the complexity of its content, is taken to represent the highest achievement of speculative thought. The richness and vitality of thought are sacrificed to this hollow abstraction, which claims legitimacy simply by being called “absolute.”

This tendency culminates in the dissolution of distinctions and determinations, or rather, their unjustified reduction into the abyss of emptiness. Instead of engaging in the rigorous work of developing and justifying distinctions, this approach collapses them into an undifferentiated void, presenting this negation as the hallmark of speculative depth. It mistakes the absence of structure for profundity, equating the dissolution of distinctions with the realization of the Absolute. What is celebrated as speculative thought is, in fact, a retreat into abstraction, where the labor of concrete articulation is replaced by the false simplicity of undifferentiated generality.

Such a standpoint not only undermines the true essence of speculative thought but also alienates the richness of reality itself. The Absolute, conceived as a living and self-unfolding totality, cannot be reduced to an empty abstraction. Its truth lies in its capacity to generate and integrate distinctions, revealing itself through the dynamic interplay of unity and particularity. To dissolve these distinctions without justification is not to comprehend the Absolute but to obscure it, replacing its vibrant complexity with the monotony of a static generality.

The hallmark of genuine speculative thought lies not in the abandonment of distinctions but in their rigorous development and reconciliation. It requires the articulation of the universal within the particular, demonstrating how the Absolute manifests itself through the determinate forms of thought and reality. True speculation does not retreat into the unreality of abstract generality but engages fully with the richness of content, revealing the necessity and coherence of distinctions as moments of the whole.

Thus, the attribution of all value to monotony and abstract generality represents a profound misunderstanding of the speculative task. It mistakes the dissolution of form for profundity and the reduction of distinctions for universality. In doing so, it abandons the labor of thought, replacing the dynamic unfolding of the Absolute with a lifeless abstraction. True speculative thought, by contrast, recognizes that the Absolute is not a static generality but a living totality, realized through the continuous process of differentiation, mediation, and integration.

To consider some existence as it is in the absolute, under this reductive approach, amounts to little more than asserting that such existence is now being spoken of as something within the absolute framework, but in reality, it does not truly exist in any differentiated or meaningful way. This mode of thinking reduces all distinctions and particularities to the abstract claim that “all things are one in the absolute,” often expressed in tautological statements like A = A. While this may give the appearance of profound insight, it is, in fact, an empty gesture, devoid of substantive content or explanatory power. The richness and specificity of reality are sacrificed to a hollow generality that obliterates all meaningful distinctions.

To oppose this one-sided notion—that in the absolute all is equal—to the differentiated and fulfilled knowledge that science seeks, or to the knowledge that demands fulfillment, is to reveal its profound inadequacy. This perspective presents the absolute not as a living, dynamic totality but as the proverbial night in which all cows are black. In such a night, distinctions vanish, and with them, the possibility of true understanding. The absolute is reduced to a formless void, a universal sameness that negates the diversity and richness of existence rather than integrating and articulating it. What is offered as a vision of the ultimate is, in fact, the naïveté of empty cognition, a superficial abstraction that mistakes the absence of differentiation for profundity.

This approach, far from advancing knowledge, retreats from its fundamental task. Genuine knowledge seeks to articulate and fulfill the differentiated aspects of reality, revealing how the absolute manifests itself in and through particular forms. It recognizes that the absolute is not a static sameness but a dynamic process that sustains and reconciles difference within a higher unity. To simply declare all things one in the absolute, without engaging in the labor of differentiation and integration, is to abandon this task, offering a simplistic and ultimately meaningless resolution to the complexities of thought and existence.

The claim that “all is one” in the absolute ignores the necessity of mediation—the process by which distinctions are not erased but preserved and sublated within the unity of the whole. This mediation is the hallmark of fulfilled knowledge, which does not dissolve particularities into an indistinct void but reveals their essential role within the structure of the absolute. The richness of the absolute lies precisely in its capacity to encompass and integrate difference, demonstrating that unity is not the negation of diversity but its higher realization.

The naïveté of empty cognition, by contrast, bypasses this process entirely. It mistakes the absence of distinction for the presence of truth, reducing the absolute to a barren uniformity. In doing so, it fails to grasp the dialectical nature of the absolute, which is not an abstract oneness but a living totality, realized through the dynamic interplay of unity and difference. This shallow conception of the absolute offers no path forward for knowledge, no means of engaging with the richness and complexity of reality. Instead, it presents a static and lifeless abstraction, incapable of sustaining the demands of genuine understanding.

To move beyond this naïve perspective, one must recognize that the absolute is not a negation of the differentiated but its fulfillment. The true absolute is the unity that arises through the articulation and integration of distinctions, where every particular finds its place within the whole. This is not the sameness of an undifferentiated void but the coherence of a dynamic and living system. Fulfilled knowledge does not retreat into the night where all cows are black; it illuminates the distinctions, revealing their necessity and their role within the totality of the absolute.

The formalism that recent philosophy has so vehemently decried and scorned, criticizing its inadequacies and limitations, nevertheless continues to reassert itself within the domain of philosophy itself. Despite the recognition of its shortcomings and the growing dissatisfaction it elicits, formalism persists, finding new expressions and subtly reproducing itself within the structures of thought. This resilience of formalism is not merely an intellectual oversight or failure of critique; it is rooted in the deeper, unresolved issues concerning the nature of absolute reality. Until philosophy achieves a clear and comprehensive understanding of absolute reality—its essence, movement, and dynamic unfolding—formalism will remain an enduring feature of science and thought.

Formalism arises from a tendency to impose static forms and abstract generalities onto reality without engaging with the dynamic and self-differentiating nature of the absolute. It substitutes rigid frameworks and predefined structures for the living, self-generating process of thought. While this approach may create the illusion of systematic coherence, it ultimately reduces the richness of reality to lifeless schemata, failing to capture the depth and complexity inherent in the absolute. Recent philosophy has rightly criticized this tendency, exposing its inability to account for the dynamic interplay of unity and difference that characterizes true knowledge. Yet even in rejecting formalism, philosophy often falls back into its patterns, perpetuating the very shortcomings it seeks to overcome.

This persistence of formalism reflects a deeper issue: the inadequacy of current understanding regarding the nature of absolute reality. The absolute is not a static entity or a fixed endpoint but a dynamic totality, realized through the continuous movement of differentiation and integration. To grasp its nature requires a mode of thought that is itself dynamic, capable of engaging with the contradictions and transformations that define the unfolding of reality. Formalism, with its reliance on static forms and external impositions, is fundamentally at odds with this requirement. Yet without a clear understanding of the absolute, thought repeatedly reverts to formalism, mistaking its static frameworks for genuine comprehension.

The inadequacy of formalism is not merely an intellectual flaw but a symptom of the unresolved tension between the demand for systematic knowledge and the failure to grasp the true nature of the absolute. This tension creates a vacuum that formalism fills, offering the appearance of order and coherence in the absence of genuine understanding. Until philosophy addresses this underlying issue—until it becomes fully clear about the nature of absolute reality—formalism will continue to reassert itself, shaping and constraining the development of science.

To overcome formalism, philosophy must embrace a mode of thought that is both rigorous and dynamic, one that recognizes the absolute as a living process rather than a static structure. This requires a shift from the imposition of predefined forms to the articulation of forms that emerge from the inner necessity of the content itself. The absolute must not be treated as an object to be categorized and contained but as a totality that unfolds through the self-determining movement of thought. Only by aligning the method of inquiry with the nature of the absolute can philosophy transcend the limitations of formalism and achieve the clarity it seeks.

The persistence of formalism, despite its recognized inadequacy, serves as a reminder of the work that remains to be done. The critique of formalism, while necessary, is not sufficient; it must be accompanied by the development of a more adequate understanding of the absolute. This understanding cannot be achieved through external critique alone but requires the labor of thought, the dialectical engagement with reality that reveals the absolute as both unity and difference, as both form and content.

Thus, the disappearance of formalism from science and philosophy depends not on its rejection but on its transcendence. This transcendence can only occur when philosophy becomes fully clear about the nature of absolute reality, recognizing it not as a static endpoint but as a dynamic process of becoming. In this clarity, formalism will no longer find a foothold, and science will be free to realize its potential as the living expression of truth.

Insofar as the general idea, when presented before the detailed execution of its development, facilitates comprehension of the latter, it is indeed helpful to provide a preliminary outline of its structure and intent. This initial articulation serves as a guiding framework, allowing the reader or thinker to orient themselves within the complexity of the forthcoming exposition. Such an outline acts as a scaffold, offering a sense of the whole even as the particulars remain to be worked out in detail. It provides a lens through which the movement of thought can be understood, preparing the way for a deeper engagement with the unfolding of the idea.

At the same time, this preliminary indication serves an equally important purpose: it provides an opportunity to confront and remove certain habitual forms of thought that obstruct philosophical understanding. These habitual forms, often ingrained in common consciousness and reinforced by uncritical patterns of reasoning, can act as significant barriers to the comprehension of speculative ideas. They confine thought within familiar but limited frameworks, making it difficult to grasp the dynamic and self-differentiating nature of philosophical concepts. By addressing and challenging these preconceptions at the outset, the preliminary outline clears the ground for a more authentic engagement with the content.

These habitual forms of thought tend to rely on static distinctions, rigid categorizations, and linear modes of reasoning that are ill-suited to the fluid and dialectical nature of philosophical inquiry. They may reduce complex ideas to simplistic binaries or impose external schemas that obscure rather than illuminate the movement of the concept. Left unchecked, these patterns of thought hinder the ability to follow the development of the idea in its richness and necessity, replacing genuine understanding with superficial comprehension. Thus, part of the task of the preliminary outline is to dislodge these habits, opening the mind to the demands of speculative thinking.

The removal of these obstacles is not merely preparatory but integral to the philosophical process itself. Philosophy requires a mode of thinking that is willing to let go of preconceived notions, to embrace the unfamiliar, and to follow the movement of the concept wherever it may lead. This openness is essential for engaging with the general idea, not as a static abstraction but as a living totality that unfolds through its determinations. By clearing away the habitual forms that obstruct this engagement, the preliminary outline lays the foundation for a more profound encounter with the idea in its execution.

Moreover, the act of indicating the general idea in advance is not intended to foreclose or limit the development of the content but to illuminate its trajectory. It offers a provisional view of the whole, one that will be enriched and transformed as the idea unfolds in its details. This rough outline is not the final word but the first step, a point of departure that invites the reader to participate in the labor of thought. It is through this participation that the general idea becomes more than an abstract schema, revealing itself as a dynamic and self-generating principle.

Thus, the dual purpose of the preliminary outline—to facilitate comprehension and to challenge habitual forms of thought—is not merely an auxiliary function but a vital part of the philosophical endeavor. By providing an initial orientation and clearing the ground for speculative thinking, it prepares the way for the deeper work of articulating and understanding the idea in its full development. In this way, the outline serves as both a guide and a provocation, inviting the reader to engage with the idea not passively but actively, as a co-participant in the unfolding of its truth.

In my view, which must ultimately justify itself through the detailed presentation of the system, everything hinges on understanding and articulating the true not solely as substance but equally as subject. This dual characterization is essential, for to conceive of the true as merely substance would reduce it to a static and impersonal ground, an abstract universality that lacks the dynamic and self-determining character inherent in the reality of the absolute. It is only when substance is also grasped as subject that its full nature is revealed—as a living, self-unfolding process that integrates universality with individuality, unity with particularity, and necessity with freedom.

To understand the true as subject is to recognize that it is not merely a passive foundation upon which other determinations rest. Rather, it is an active principle, a self-determining reality that manifests itself through its own movement and development. Subjectivity entails a capacity for self-reflection, self-differentiation, and self-integration—qualities that transform substance from an inert backdrop into the dynamic force that animates and sustains the whole. This perspective shifts the focus from substance as a static “what” to subject as an active “who,” revealing the true as a process of becoming, rather than a fixed state of being.

It is equally important to clarify the dual aspect of substantiality itself, for substantiality encompasses both universality—the immediacy of knowledge—and that which is being or immediacy for knowledge. The universal, as the immediacy of knowledge, represents the self-evident, the undifferentiated totality that provides the initial ground of understanding. It is the starting point from which thought begins, the unconditioned essence that stands prior to all distinctions. However, substantiality also includes that which is being, or what appears as immediacy for knowledge—the determinate, particular forms in which the universal is actualized and experienced.

This duality within substantiality points to the inseparability of the universal and the particular, the immediate and the mediated. The true, as substance, is not a mere abstraction; it is the unity of these aspects, where universality is realized in particularity and particularity is grounded in universality. It is this dynamic interplay that allows the true to be not only comprehended but also actualized, as it reveals itself in the determinate forms of knowledge and existence. Substantiality, therefore, is not static; it is the living totality in which immediacy and mediation, universality and individuality, continuously interact and coalesce.

To fully grasp the true as both substance and subject is to engage with the dialectical movement through which it realizes itself. Substance, as universality, provides the ground, but subjectivity is what animates it, propelling it into self-articulation and self-determination. Without subjectivity, substance would remain inert, incapable of expressing its richness or fulfilling its potential. Conversely, subjectivity without substance would lack grounding, dissolving into mere arbitrariness or abstraction. Their unity, as the true, is the key to understanding the absolute as a living, dynamic process rather than a fixed or abstract idea.

Thus, my view asserts that the true cannot be adequately conceived without recognizing this dual nature. It is through the presentation of the system that this unity of substance and subject must justify itself, demonstrating how the absolute unfolds through its internal necessity. The task is to articulate this unity in such a way that neither aspect—substance as universality or subject as particularity and self-determination—is diminished or isolated. In doing so, the true reveals itself as a comprehensive and integrated whole, encompassing the immediacy of its ground and the mediation of its realization.

When the notion of God as the one substance was first articulated, it stirred profound outrage and resistance in its time. This reaction was not merely the product of doctrinal disagreement or intellectual inertia but stemmed from a deeper, instinctive sense of unease. Such a conception seemed to allow the dissolution of self-consciousness into an undifferentiated whole, leaving no room for the individuality, freedom, and self-determination that define human existence. This fear—that the self might be lost in the vast, impersonal unity of substance—resonated deeply with the concerns of those who sought to preserve the integrity of self-conscious thought.

At the same time, the opposing stance, which insists on thought as thought, clings to universality in a way that also limits its depth and scope. This view emphasizes the identical simplicity of pure universality, an undifferentiated and unmoving substantiality that stands in contrast to the dynamic interplay of unity and difference required to grasp the absolute. Thought, in this conception, becomes an abstraction, a rigid and static framework that denies the movement and differentiation necessary for the development of self-consciousness and the richness of reality.

Both perspectives—whether the notion of God as one substance or the insistence on thought as pure universality—reveal significant tensions in the attempt to comprehend the true. The former risks dissolving the self into an all-encompassing unity, negating the individuality and subjectivity that are essential to self-consciousness. The latter, in its refusal to engage with differentiation, reduces thought to a sterile abstraction, unable to account for the dynamic and self-generating character of reality. Both approaches fall short of the dialectical movement necessary to fully articulate the absolute.

The outrage provoked by the notion of God as the one substance reflects the unresolved struggle to reconcile substance and subject, unity and particularity. The instinctive resistance to this conception arises from the recognition that self-consciousness cannot be dismissed or negated without undermining the essence of thought itself. Yet the opposing stance, which clings to universality as an undifferentiated simplicity, fares no better, for it also fails to grasp the true nature of self-consciousness as a dynamic process that integrates unity and difference.

The challenge lies in moving beyond these one-sided positions, toward a conception of the absolute that unites substance and subject in a living totality. The true cannot be reduced to either an inert, undifferentiated substance or an abstract, unmoving universality. It must be understood as a dynamic process in which substance becomes subject, and subject realizes itself as substance. This movement preserves the individuality and freedom of self-consciousness while integrating it into the unity of the whole.

The fear that self-consciousness might dissolve into substance reflects a valid concern, but it misunderstands the nature of true unity. The absolute does not negate self-consciousness; it encompasses and fulfills it. Similarly, the insistence on undifferentiated universality misunderstands the nature of thought, which is not static but dialectical, continually generating distinctions and reconciling them within the unity of the whole. The resolution of these tensions lies in a deeper understanding of the absolute as both substance and subject, as both unity and differentiation.

In this light, the historical outrage over the conception of God as one substance can be seen as part of the ongoing struggle to articulate the nature of the absolute. It reflects the instinctive resistance to any notion that seems to undermine the integrity of self-consciousness, as well as the limitations of an abstract universality that refuses to engage with the particular. The task of philosophy is to move beyond these oppositions, revealing the absolute as a living totality that integrates substance and subject, unity and difference, in the dynamic unfolding of truth.

Moreover, when thought unites the being of substance with itself, achieving a synthesis in which immediacy or intuition is grasped as thought, a critical question arises: does this intellectual intuition avoid collapsing into inert simplicity, or does it succeed in representing actuality in a manner that is not merely unreal or abstract? This question strikes at the very heart of speculative philosophy, as it addresses the tension between immediacy and mediation, between intuition as a direct encounter with reality and thought as the process of articulating and comprehending that reality.

Intellectual intuition, at its best, seeks to bridge the gap between immediacy and thought, presenting being not as something external to thinking but as something inherently rational and self-related. Yet the danger remains that this intuition may lapse into a kind of inert simplicity—a static and undifferentiated unity that lacks the dynamism necessary to reflect the true nature of actuality. If intuition remains content with the mere declaration that immediacy is thought, without engaging in the labor of articulating how thought develops and unfolds within immediacy, it risks becoming an abstract affirmation devoid of substance.

The challenge, therefore, is to ensure that intellectual intuition does not merely assert a unity but demonstrates how that unity is actualized. To represent actuality in a way that is not unreal requires more than the identification of intuition with thought; it demands the articulation of the process through which this identification becomes concrete and self-determining. Thought must not merely subsume immediacy but reveal how immediacy is itself mediated—how it contains within it the seeds of differentiation and development that give rise to the richness of actuality.

This task requires a dialectical approach, one that does not rest in the simplicity of intuition but moves through the contradictions and tensions inherent in being and thought. The immediacy of intuition must be shown to unfold into the mediated structures of thought, where the unity of substance and thought is not merely posited but realized through the dynamic interplay of unity and difference. Only in this movement can intellectual intuition transcend its potential inertia and fulfill its promise as a representation of actuality.

Furthermore, the representation of actuality must not only avoid unreality but also engage with the concrete particularities of existence. An intuition that fails to differentiate itself risks reducing the richness of being to a hollow abstraction, a sameness that negates the diversity and complexity of the real. The actuality of the absolute lies not in its abstract unity but in its capacity to encompass and integrate particularity, demonstrating that unity is not the negation of difference but its higher realization.

Thus, the question of whether intellectual intuition avoids lapsing into inert simplicity is inseparable from the question of how it represents actuality. If intuition remains static, it falls into the unreality of abstraction; if it engages with the dialectical movement of thought, it realizes itself as a dynamic and living reflection of the absolute. The unity of being and thought, substance and subject, is not a fixed endpoint but a process, a continual unfolding in which immediacy and mediation are reconciled within the totality of actuality.

In this light, intellectual intuition must not only grasp the unity of substance and thought but also articulate the process by which this unity becomes concrete. It must show that the immediacy of being is not opposed to thought but contains within itself the movement of self-differentiation and self-integration that defines the real. Only by engaging with this movement can intellectual intuition fulfill its role as a representation of actuality, one that is both dynamic and true to the complexity of existence.

The living substance is, furthermore, being that is in its truth subject. This assertion signifies that substance is not merely a static foundation or inert essence but a dynamic, self-unfolding reality. It is truly real only insofar as it is the movement of self-establishment, a process characterized by the mediation of becoming-other with itself. In this movement, the substance is not separate from the subject; rather, its reality emerges precisely through its activity as subject. It does not merely exist but actively constitutes itself, realizing its essence through the interplay of differentiation and unity.

As subject, the living substance is pure, simple negativity. This negativity is not an absence or void but the dynamic principle of self-relation and transformation. It is the force that disrupts the static simplicity of substance, driving it to differentiate itself and to enter into opposition. Through negativity, the substance splits the simple into contrasting poles, a self-doubling that gives rise to distinction and opposition. This process is the very engine of development, as it generates the tension and interaction necessary for the unfolding of reality.

Yet this division into opposition is not final or absolute. The same negativity that produces difference also negates the indifferent separation of these opposing poles. It sublates the division, overcoming their externality and reconciling them within a higher unity. This negation of opposition is not a return to the original simplicity but a transformation, a new level of unity that preserves the differences as moments within the whole. The living substance, as subject, is thus not a fixed identity but a process of self-differentiation and self-reconciliation, continually generating and integrating distinctions within itself.

This dynamic movement is what defines the living substance as truly real. Its reality does not lie in a static state but in its capacity to mediate and integrate the process of becoming-other. It is through this mediation that the substance achieves self-establishment, not as a pre-given essence but as a self-constituting totality. The splitting into opposition and the subsequent negation of this division are not contradictions to be resolved externally but the internal logic of the substance’s development. The substance is subject precisely because it embodies this dialectical movement, where negativity is not destructive but generative.

The living substance, as the unity of substance and subject, reveals that reality is not a static given but a living process. It is the continual interplay of differentiation and integration, where the simple negates itself, doubles into opposition, and reconciles itself through the negation of this division. This process is not a series of disconnected stages but a coherent movement, a self-determining activity in which the substance realizes its essence as subject. In this way, the living substance transcends the dichotomy of being and becoming, embodying both as moments of its self-unfolding truth.

This understanding of the living substance has profound implications for the nature of reality and knowledge. It reveals that the true is not an inert absolute but a dynamic totality, realized through the dialectical movement of negativity and mediation. The splitting into opposition and the reconciliation of these poles are not anomalies to be resolved but the very structure of reality itself. To grasp the living substance as subject is to engage with this movement, recognizing that its unity is not a static identity but a living process of becoming.

Only this self-restoring equality—this reflection of otherness back into itself—constitutes the true. The true is not to be found in an original unity as such, nor in an immediacy as such, for these represent static, undeveloped states that lack the dynamism and movement essential to actuality. An original unity, untested and undifferentiated, remains abstract and inert, incapable of articulating the richness of being. Similarly, immediacy as such is a mere starting point, devoid of the mediation and development that transform it into a realized whole. The true lies beyond these static forms; it emerges as a process, as the dynamic becoming of itself.

This self-restoring equality is the circle of becoming, a unity that does not remain inert but actively posits and reconciles its distinctions. It presupposes its end as its purpose and carries this end as its beginning. In this way, the true is teleological, oriented toward its fulfillment even as it begins. Its beginning is not an isolated point but contains within itself the seed of its completion, and its completion is not an external endpoint but the realization of what was implicit from the start. This circular movement is not a mere repetition but a progressive unfolding, where the unity of the true is achieved through the resolution and integration of difference.

The true, as this process, is real only through its actualization. It cannot remain a potential or abstract possibility; it must become, must articulate and realize itself in the concreteness of its development. Its reality lies in the continual mediation of its elements, the active interplay of unity and difference, immediacy and mediation. This process of actualization is not merely a means to an end but is itself the essence of the true. The circle of becoming is not complete without its moments of differentiation and reconciliation, which constitute its content and form.

Moreover, the true is not a fixed or finished state; it is the ongoing activity of self-realization. The reflection of otherness back into itself is a perpetual process, where the unity of the true is constantly renewed through its engagement with difference. This self-restoring equality is not a static identity but a living, dynamic totality, where the movement of becoming is inseparable from the being of the true. The completion of this process is not an external closure but the fulfillment of the true’s immanent purpose, its self-realization as a unified whole.

This conception of the true challenges any understanding that seeks to isolate unity, immediacy, or completion as separate or self-sufficient. The true is not an original unity that precedes difference, nor an immediacy that excludes mediation, nor an endpoint that negates the process of becoming. It is the circle that unites these moments, where the beginning presupposes the end, and the end fulfills the beginning. Its reality is inseparable from the process through which it becomes itself, where unity is achieved not by negating difference but by integrating it into a higher whole.

Thus, the true is both the process and the result of its own becoming. It is the dynamic interplay of self-differentiation and self-integration, where the unity of the whole is realized through the mediation of its parts. Its reality is not static but active, not given but achieved. This self-restoring equality, this reflection of otherness back into itself, is the essence of the true, revealing it as a living, self-realizing totality.

The life of God and divine knowing may indeed be aptly described as a play of love with itself, a harmonious self-relation in which unity and joy are reflected endlessly within their own perfection. Yet this image, though evocative, risks descending into mere edification or even triviality if it neglects the seriousness, pain, patience, and labor of the negative. Without these elements, the idea becomes a shallow sentiment, a one-sided portrayal of divine life that glosses over the depth and complexity inherent in its realization. Divine life is not simply the untroubled enjoyment of unity; it encompasses the arduous process through which that unity sustains itself against estrangement and difference, transforming these oppositions into moments of its fulfillment.

In itself, this divine life is the unclouded equality and unity with itself, untouched by the seriousness of otherness, estrangement, and the overcoming of that estrangement. It represents an ideal state of self-contained perfection, a being at peace within its own essence. However, this “in itself” remains an abstract universality, a static notion that fails to account for the dynamic processes through which divine life actualizes itself. To conceive of God solely as this unperturbed unity is to disregard the essential nature of being-for-itself, the self-determining activity that gives rise to the richness and vitality of divine knowing.

The “in itself” of divine life, though pure and universal, lacks the dimension of self-movement and form. It abstracts from the labor of becoming, overlooking the role of negation in the realization of unity. Negation is not a mere disruption but the principle of self-movement, the force through which form emerges and differentiates itself. Without the seriousness of negation—the willingness to confront otherness and to reconcile estrangement—divine life would remain inert, an abstract potential rather than a living actuality. It is through this process of self-movement that divine knowing transcends abstraction, embodying both the unity of its essence and the differentiation of its form.

The play of love, while capturing the joyous and harmonious aspect of divine life, must also embrace the labor that underlies it. Love, in its highest form, is not the denial of difference but its reconciliation, the integration of otherness into unity. This reconciliation requires patience and pain, the willingness to endure estrangement and to transform it into a higher unity. The life of God is not untouched by these moments; rather, it encompasses them, demonstrating that unity is not the negation of difference but its fulfillment. Divine life, as self-knowing and self-loving, contains within itself the process of overcoming estrangement, a process that is as essential as the unity it achieves.

Thus, the description of divine life as a play of love with itself must not be reduced to a comforting image devoid of depth. It must acknowledge the seriousness of divine self-knowing, the active process through which unity is achieved and sustained. The labor of the negative—the splitting, estrangement, and reconciliation of form—is not incidental but integral to divine life. Without this labor, the idea of divine knowing would remain an abstract universality, disconnected from the richness of its actualization.

To grasp the life of God in its fullness, one must move beyond the abstraction of “in itself” to recognize the self-movement of form, the dynamic interplay of unity and difference. Divine life is not a static perfection but a living process, one that embraces the pain and patience of becoming, the labor of negation, and the joy of reconciliation. It is only through this process that the play of love with itself can be truly understood—not as mere edification, but as the profound truth of a self-knowing and self-actualizing unity.

When it is stated that form is equal to essence, it is a profound misunderstanding to assume that knowing can content itself with the “in itself,” or the essence, while dispensing with form. Such a view erroneously suggests that the absolute principle or absolute intuition, by virtue of their immediacy and universality, make unnecessary the labor of execution or the development of form. On the contrary, this very equivalence of form and essence demands that knowing engage fully with both. It requires not only the recognition of essence as the foundation of all reality but also the active articulation of that essence through its forms, revealing its richness and dynamism.

Essence is not a static ground that can be grasped apart from its form. Precisely because form is as essential to essence as essence is to itself, the two must be understood as inseparably united. Essence, taken in isolation, remains abstract and incomplete, a potentiality without realization. To reduce the absolute to mere substance or to the pure self-intuition of the divine is to disregard its true nature, which includes not only its immediacy but also its unfolding into form. Form is not an external addition to essence but its necessary expression, the means by which essence becomes fully realized and actual.

This inseparability of essence and form implies that the absolute must not only be conceived as essence but also articulated in the full richness of developed form. Form is the movement through which essence actualizes itself, transforming its abstract unity into a living totality. Without this movement, essence would remain an empty generality, devoid of the particularity and concreteness that constitute its actuality. The absolute, to be truly grasped, must therefore be expressed not only as essence but also as form, where form reveals the internal differentiation and self-determining activity of essence.

To understand and express essence without form is to miss the essence itself, for essence is not merely “in itself” but also “for itself,” realized through the mediation of form. This mediation is not an extraneous process but the very means by which the absolute comes to be known and expressed as actual. The execution of the absolute principle and the development of form are not dispensable tasks but integral to the realization of essence. Only through the dialectical unfolding of form can the absolute reveal its full richness and complexity, demonstrating that it is not a static substance but a dynamic, self-differentiating reality.

Thus, the idea that the absolute principle or intuition renders unnecessary the development of form reflects a fundamental misunderstanding of the nature of the absolute. Essence, without form, is incomplete; form, without essence, is empty. Their unity is what constitutes actuality, where essence is fully realized and expressed in the richness of its forms. This unity reveals that the absolute is not an abstract immediacy but a living process, one that integrates substance and form, universality and particularity, immediacy and mediation.

To grasp the absolute as actual, therefore, requires a commitment to the full development of form. It is not enough to intuit or conceive the absolute; it must be articulated and realized through the process of differentiation and integration that constitutes form. This process is not ancillary but central to the nature of the absolute, for it is through form that essence reveals its inner necessity and becomes truly itself. Only in this way can the absolute be understood and expressed as actual—a reality that encompasses not only its ground but also the full scope of its realization.

In this light, the equivalence of form and essence is not a mere theoretical proposition but a call to engage with the labor of actualization. It challenges the tendency to rest in abstraction and demands a deeper engagement with the unfolding of essence through form. By embracing this movement, knowing fulfills its task, revealing the absolute not as a static principle but as the living unity of essence and form, substance and subject, in its full actuality.

The true is the whole. Yet this whole is not a static or preexisting entity; it is nothing other than the essence that completes itself through its development. The absolute, often conceived as timeless and unchanging, must instead be understood as fundamentally dynamic. It is not simply what is but what becomes—a totality that realizes itself only through the process of its unfolding. To grasp the absolute fully, one must recognize that it is essentially a result, that it is what it truly is only at the end. This is not a diminishment of the absolute but a profound insight into its nature: its actuality lies in its process, its becoming, its self-realization as subject.

At first glance, the notion of the absolute as a result may appear contradictory. How can something be conceived as absolute—seemingly complete and self-contained—if it must rely on a process to become itself? A little reflection, however, dispels this apparent contradiction. The absolute is not a result in the sense of being dependent on external conditions or external causes. Rather, it is a result that arises from its own internal necessity. Its process of becoming is not imposed upon it from without but is the very expression of its essence. It is not absolute despite being a result but precisely because it is the result of its self-determining activity.

This understanding transforms the way the absolute is conceived. It is not an inert substance or a fixed foundation upon which reality rests. Instead, it is a living, dynamic totality—a unity that contains and reconciles its own differentiation. Its being is inseparable from its becoming, and its unity is realized not by negating difference but by integrating it into a coherent whole. The absolute is not merely what it is “in itself” but what it becomes “for itself,” as it unfolds through the process of self-reflection and self-determination.

To grasp the absolute as a result is to embrace its nature as subject. As subject, the absolute is not a static identity but an active process of self-relation. It splits itself into opposition, confronts otherness, and reconciles these distinctions within itself, thus realizing its unity. This process is not incidental to its nature but essential to its actuality. The absolute is what it is only by becoming what it is, through the dialectical movement that reveals its inner necessity.

This conception of the absolute as a result also redefines the nature of truth. The true is not a set of static propositions or an unchanging reality that exists apart from thought. Truth is the whole—the totality that comes into being through the unfolding of the absolute. It is not merely a fact to be observed but a process to be comprehended. To know the truth is to follow the movement of the absolute, to witness how it completes itself through the interplay of unity and difference, immediacy and mediation, essence and form.

The apparent contradiction in viewing the absolute as a result dissolves when one considers the alternative. To deny the absolute its process of becoming is to reduce it to a lifeless abstraction, an empty universality devoid of content or actuality. Only by recognizing the absolute as a result—its nature as a dynamic and self-unfolding totality—can it be understood as truly real, as a living unity that embodies the fullness of truth.

Thus, the absolute is not merely a beginning but also an end, and this end is immanent in its beginning. Its process of becoming is not a linear progression but a circular movement, where the end fulfills and realizes what was implicit in the beginning. The absolute is the whole precisely because it completes itself through its development, integrating every moment of its becoming into a unified and coherent totality. In this lies its nature: to be actual, to be subject, and to be the process of becoming itself.

The beginning, the principle, or the absolute as it is first and immediately expressed, is merely the universal—a broad, undifferentiated unity that lacks specificity or particularity. It is an abstraction that, while containing the potential for all that follows, is far from the concrete richness of the whole. Just as the phrase “all animals” cannot substitute for the detailed and systematic study of zoology, the terms “divine,” “absolute,” “eternal,” and the like fail to encapsulate the depth of what they signify. These words gesture toward the infinite, but they do so in a way that remains vague and indeterminate, offering only a fleeting intuition of what lies beyond their immediate expression.

Such terms, rather than revealing the full content of what they point to, instead capture only the intuition of the immediate—the raw and unmediated apprehension of their object. This immediacy is not without significance; it marks the starting point of thought, the initial moment where the universal is grasped as potential. Yet, it must be understood that this immediacy is incomplete. It lacks the differentiation and development required to bring the universal into concrete reality. The intuitive grasp of the absolute may inspire awe or contemplation, but it is insufficient for genuine understanding.

The transition from these terms to even a simple proposition already marks a critical shift—a becoming-other that signifies the movement from immediacy to mediation. This transition is not merely an addition or elaboration; it is an alteration that fundamentally transforms the original intuition. In moving toward articulation, the immediacy of the universal is sublated—preserved, negated, and elevated within a more developed and concrete expression. Mediation is not a departure from the universal but the means through which it unfolds and realizes itself, revealing its inner structure and content.

To grasp the absolute as more than an immediate intuition, one must engage in this process of mediation. The universal, as expressed in its initial form, is abstract and indeterminate, a placeholder for the richness that it will become through its development. Words like “divine” or “eternal” point toward the absolute but fail to articulate its essence. Their inadequacy lies not in their falsity but in their incompleteness; they express the beginning, not the end, of thought’s journey. The absolute, to be truly understood, must move beyond these abstractions, becoming concrete through the dialectical process that integrates immediacy and mediation.

This process mirrors the movement of thought itself, which begins with intuition but cannot rest there. Thought must transition from the immediacy of its starting point to the complexity of its realization, from the simplicity of the universal to the richness of the particular and the unity of the whole. Each step in this process involves a becoming-other, a moment of differentiation and reconciliation through which the universal comes to know itself as the absolute. Mediation, far from being an external addition, is the very essence of this development, the means by which the absolute realizes its actuality.

Thus, the inadequacy of terms like “divine,” “absolute,” or “eternal” lies in their immediacy, in their failure to capture the dynamic process through which the absolute unfolds. These words serve as pointers, but they must be superseded by the labor of thought, which transforms intuition into understanding and abstraction into concreteness. The absolute, in its truth, is not an inert universal but a living totality, realized through the dialectical movement of mediation. Its immediacy is only the first moment of a process that culminates in the articulation of its essence as a unified whole.

In this sense, the initial expression of the absolute is both necessary and insufficient. It is necessary as the starting point of thought, the universal from which all else proceeds. But it is insufficient because it remains abstract and indeterminate, incapable of expressing the full content of the absolute. To truly know the absolute is to follow its development, to witness how the universal becomes particular and reconciles itself as a concrete and self-determining unity. Anything less remains an intuition, a mere glimpse of what the absolute is in its actuality.

This mediation, however, is precisely what is often recoiled from, as though recognizing it as more than mere nothing—as something that exists meaningfully within the absolute—would undermine the very notion of absolute knowledge. This recoil stems from a deep-seated misconception: the belief that the absolute, in its purity and completeness, must exclude all processes of mediation, differentiation, and becoming. To acknowledge mediation as intrinsic to the absolute is seen by some as a threat to its unconditioned nature, as if the introduction of movement and relation would compromise the absolute’s unity and self-sufficiency.

This reaction reflects a misunderstanding of both mediation and the absolute itself. Mediation is not an external imposition on the absolute, nor is it a diminishment of its completeness. Rather, it is the means through which the absolute realizes itself, transforming its initial immediacy into a fully articulated and concrete totality. Far from detracting from absolute knowledge, mediation is its very condition of possibility. It is through the process of mediation that the absolute reveals its inner necessity, integrating unity and difference into a living whole.

The recoil from mediation often arises from an attachment to the immediacy of the absolute, an insistence that the absolute must remain untouched by the labor of becoming. This perspective views mediation as a disruption, an introduction of finitude and contingency that would compromise the absolute’s unchanging essence. Yet this view fails to recognize that the absolute is not a static being but a dynamic process. Its unity is not given but achieved, realized through the dialectical movement of differentiation and reconciliation. Mediation is not foreign to the absolute; it is the activity through which the absolute becomes what it truly is.

To reject mediation is to reduce the absolute to an abstraction, a lifeless identity devoid of movement or depth. Such a conception may preserve the appearance of purity, but it does so at the cost of actuality. The absolute, stripped of mediation, becomes an empty universal, incapable of articulating its content or engaging with the richness of reality. By contrast, to embrace mediation is to recognize that the absolute’s unity is not static but self-determining, achieved through the interplay of immediacy and mediation, substance and subject.

This fear that mediation might undermine absolute knowledge reflects an incomplete understanding of the relationship between the universal and the particular, the immediate and the mediated. Absolute knowledge is not threatened by mediation; it depends on it. Mediation is the process through which knowledge moves beyond the abstract and the immediate, unfolding into the fullness of its content and realizing its unity with the whole. Without mediation, absolute knowledge would remain an empty ideal, an aspiration without a path to fulfillment.

Thus, the recognition of mediation as something that exists within the absolute is not a forfeiture of absolute knowledge but its fulfillment. It is through mediation that the absolute becomes concrete, articulating its essence and reconciling its moments into a coherent totality. The labor of mediation is not a diminishment of the absolute but an expression of its inner vitality, the movement through which it realizes its completeness and self-sufficiency.

To recoil from mediation is to misunderstand the nature of the absolute, to mistake its unity for immobility and its purity for abstraction. True absolute knowledge does not shy away from mediation but embraces it, recognizing it as the dynamic principle that animates the absolute and brings it to realization. In this way, mediation is not an obstacle but a necessity, the very means through which the absolute fulfills its nature as a living totality.

This aversion (perhorresciren) to mediation actually stems from a fundamental unfamiliarity with the nature of mediation and with the essence of absolute knowing itself. Mediation, often misconceived as an external or unnecessary complication, is in reality nothing other than self-moving self-equality. It is the process by which the absolute reconciles itself with itself, a dynamic reflection into itself that constitutes its very being. Far from being alien to the absolute, mediation is its innermost activity, the engine of its self-realization.

Mediation, understood in its truth, is the moment of the self-sufficient “I,” the locus of pure negativity and simple becoming. This negativity is not a destructive force but the generative principle of all differentiation and unification. It is the activity through which the “I” negates its immediacy, positing itself as other and then sublating this otherness to return to itself. In this movement, mediation is revealed as the self-relation of the absolute, the perpetual process of becoming that grounds its unity and actuality.

The “I,” or becoming in general, is the mediating process par excellence. It is not a static identity but an active movement, where simplicity and negativity coincide. By virtue of its simplicity, the “I” embodies the pure act of becoming immediacy, and in doing so, it is immediacy itself. Mediation is not opposed to immediacy; it is the process by which immediacy is generated and sustained. This dynamic interplay of mediation and immediacy is the essence of self-consciousness and, by extension, of the absolute.

To grasp mediation as self-moving self-equality is to understand that it is not an intermediary that stands between the absolute and its realization but the very activity through which the absolute realizes itself. It is the unity of simplicity and movement, of negativity and affirmation, that allows the absolute to emerge as a living totality. The aversion to mediation, therefore, arises not from its inadequacy but from a failure to recognize its necessity. It reflects an attachment to the immediacy of the absolute, an unwillingness to engage with the labor of becoming that constitutes its truth.

Mediation, as the movement of the “I” or becoming, reveals that immediacy is not a given but an achievement. It is the product of a process in which the “I” relates to itself through its negation, generating the unity and simplicity that define its being. This process is not a detour but the very nature of the absolute, the means by which it manifests its essence and actualizes its potential. To recoil from mediation is to misunderstand the absolute, to mistake its immediacy for an inert given rather than the dynamic result of its self-movement.

Thus, mediation is the foundation of absolute knowing. It is the reflection of the absolute into itself, the self-relation that sustains its unity and reality. The “I,” as pure negativity, embodies this mediating process, transforming simplicity into immediacy and immediacy into simplicity. Far from opposing immediacy, mediation reveals its true nature, showing that it is not an initial state but a perpetual becoming, a process in which the absolute realizes itself as both unity and difference.

In this light, the aversion to mediation is revealed as a misunderstanding of the very essence of the absolute. Mediation is not a threat to immediacy or unity; it is their condition of possibility. By embracing mediation, one gains insight into the dynamic nature of the absolute, understanding it not as a static principle but as a living process of self-relation and self-realization. The “I,” as the locus of this mediation, exemplifies the simplicity and movement that define the absolute, demonstrating that its immediacy is the result of its becoming and its unity the product of its differentiation.

It is, therefore, a fundamental misunderstanding of reason to exclude reflection from the true and to fail to recognize it as a positive and essential moment of the absolute. Reflection is not an extraneous addition or a deviation from the essence of the true; on the contrary, it is the activity through which the true comes to be what it is. It is reflection that renders the true a result, allowing it to emerge through the process of becoming. At the same time, reflection sublates the apparent opposition between the true and its becoming, demonstrating that this opposition is not ultimate but is resolved in the unity of the absolute.

The process of becoming, which reflection reveals as integral to the true, is not something separate or external to the result. Rather, this becoming is just as simple as the result itself. The true does not emerge as a wholly new or foreign entity at the end of its becoming but reveals itself in the result as simple and self-identical. The difference between the process of becoming and the result is not one of form or essence but is instead a moment of mediation that culminates in the return to simplicity. Becoming is not the negation of simplicity; it is the movement through which simplicity is realized.

This interplay between becoming and result reflects the dialectical nature of the absolute, where movement and rest, difference and unity, are not opposed but are integrated into a coherent whole. The true is not an inert state that exists apart from its process; it is the unity of process and product, the simplicity that emerges through differentiation and reconciliation. Reflection, in this context, is not merely a tool of reason but the very activity of the absolute, the means through which it realizes its unity with itself.

To exclude reflection from the true is to misunderstand the nature of the absolute, reducing it to a static immediacy that cannot account for its own actuality. Reflection, by sublating the opposition between the true and its becoming, reveals that the absolute is not a fixed essence but a dynamic totality. The simplicity of the true is not given but achieved, arising from the process of its own becoming. This simplicity is not the negation of complexity but its fulfillment, the return into unity that integrates the moments of differentiation and mediation.

The misunderstanding of reason that excludes reflection often stems from a desire to preserve the absolute as a pure immediacy, untouched by the labor of becoming. Yet this perspective overlooks the essential role of reflection in actualizing the true. Without reflection, the absolute would remain an abstraction, a potential that never realizes itself. Reflection, by integrating becoming into the true, shows that the absolute is not diminished by movement or mediation but is constituted through them. It is in this return into simplicity that the true reveals itself as both process and result, as both unity and differentiation.

Thus, the true cannot be separated from its becoming, nor can its simplicity be understood apart from reflection. Reflection is the activity through which the absolute reconciles itself with itself, transforming becoming into result and result into the expression of unity. In this way, the true is not static but living, not immediate but mediated. Its simplicity is not the absence of process but the culmination of the movement that brings it into being.

To grasp the true in its fullness, one must embrace reflection as a positive moment of the absolute, recognizing it as the means by which the true realizes its actuality. The apparent opposition between the true and its becoming is not a barrier to understanding but a key to its depth. For it is precisely in the return into simplicity, achieved through reflection, that the true reveals itself as the unity of being and becoming, of process and product, of immediacy and mediation.

If the embryo is a human being in itself, it is not yet a human being for itself. Its potentiality as a human being is fully present in its essence, but it has not yet actualized this essence through development. It becomes a human being for itself only when it has attained the maturity of reason, having made itself into what it already is in itself. This transformation, this movement from potentiality to actuality, is the essence of its development. The embryo’s actuality lies not in what it merely is but in what it becomes through the process of self-realization.

This result—human being for itself—is not a negation of the embryo’s initial immediacy but its fulfillment. It represents a return to simplicity, now enriched by the labor of differentiation and reconciliation. The mature human being, as a developed reason, embodies a self-conscious freedom that rests in itself. This freedom is not the absence of conflict or opposition but the resolution of opposition within the unity of the self. The individual does not cast aside opposition, leaving it unresolved and external, but reconciles with it, integrating it into the harmonious whole of self-consciousness.

This reconciliation is not merely a cessation of conflict but an active process of unification. The human being for itself achieves simplicity, but this simplicity is not the abstract immediacy of the embryo. It is a self-conscious immediacy, one that has passed through mediation and differentiation. It is the simplicity of freedom, where the self, in its unity, contains and resolves the complexity of its development. Opposition, rather than being an obstacle, becomes a moment of growth, a necessary element in the process of self-actualization.

The analogy of the embryo underscores the dialectical nature of development. Just as the embryo contains the essence of the human being in itself, so too does the true contain its actuality within its potential. But neither can remain at this initial stage without falling short of its essence. The human being is not defined merely by its potential but by the process through which this potential is realized. Likewise, the true is not a static immediacy but a dynamic totality, achieved through the reconciliation of opposition and the actualization of unity.

This process reveals the essence of freedom. Freedom is not the absence of opposition but the capacity to reconcile with it, to transform it into a moment of self-realization. The human being for itself embodies this freedom as self-consciousness, resting in the simplicity of its unity while encompassing the richness of its development. This unity is not given but achieved, the result of a dialectical movement in which immediacy and mediation, potentiality and actuality, are integrated into a coherent whole.

The human being for itself is the absolute, which is likewise a result—a unity that emerges through the process of its becoming. The absolute, like the human being, is not static but dynamic, not merely in itself but for itself. Its actuality lies in its ability to reconcile opposition within the simplicity of its self-conscious freedom. This reconciliation is the essence of its truth, a truth that rests in itself while encompassing the full scope of its development.

In this way, the transition from embryo to human being mirrors the movement of the absolute from potentiality to actuality. Both achieve their truth not by bypassing opposition but by embracing it, transforming it into a moment of their self-realization. This result, though simple in its immediacy, is rich in its content, embodying the labor and reconciliation that define its essence. The simplicity of the human being for itself is thus not a beginning but a culmination, a unity that integrates the complexity of its journey within the freedom of its self-conscious being.

The idea can also be expressed by saying that reason is purposeful activity—a process driven by an intrinsic goal, where each step of the movement is directed toward the realization of an end. The elevation of nature, when conceived as something independent of reason and external purposiveness, has led to a misunderstanding that separates purpose from the very essence of reason. The rejection of external purposiveness, often associated with a mechanistic view of nature, has led to a disreputation of the very form of purpose itself. Purpose has been stripped of its connection to rational activity, relegated to the status of mere accident or blind cause, thereby distorting its true role in the unfolding of reason.

Yet, as Aristotle famously asserts, nature is also defined as purposeful activity. This identification of nature with purpose is not incidental; it reveals that purpose is not an external imposition upon nature but inherent to its very movement and development. Purpose is not something extrinsic that merely shapes or directs the course of action; rather, it is the immediate principle—the essence that constitutes the resting entity while simultaneously being active. It is the dynamic force that underlies the unfolding of reality, the intrinsic teleology that governs its movement.

In this sense, purpose is not to be thought of as a static goal waiting to be realized but as the living, self-determining process that constitutes being. It is a principle that is active within itself, where rest and activity coexist in a unified movement. Purpose is the active force that drives reason, not from the outside but from within, guiding the development of both the self and the world. The true nature of purpose, then, lies not in an external telos but in the very self-realization of reason as a purposeful activity.

This conception of purpose as the resting entity that is also active leads us to understand its relationship to the abstract power of negativity. The abstract power to move, which is associated with being-for-itself, or pure negativity, is not a mere potential or dormant energy. It is the very principle of self-movement—the force by which reason or the absolute relates to itself and achieves its development. Being-for-itself represents this movement, the power of pure negativity that negates the status quo and generates the dialectical process through which the absolute becomes what it is.

This power of negativity is essential to the unfolding of purpose. It is not an opposition that disrupts the process but the very condition for its movement, for it is through the negation of what is that the realization of what can be takes place. Purpose, therefore, is not merely the realization of a predetermined end but the process of self-determining development, where the abstract power of negativity, as being-for-itself, mediates between the beginning and the end, the potential and the actual.

Thus, the conception of purpose as intrinsic to reason and nature does not undermine the idea of an external telos but rather elevates purpose to a self-constituting, dynamic process. Purpose is the activity of reason itself, not a passive goal to be reached but the force that drives the unfolding of self-consciousness, nature, and the absolute. It is active not only in achieving its end but in the very movement through which that end is realized. In this sense, purpose is not external to the world of reason but is the world of reason’s inner essence, the unity of activity and rest, of being and becoming.

The result is the same as the beginning only because the beginning is purpose itself. This is not to say that the result is a mere repetition of the starting point, but rather that the starting point, as purpose, inherently contains the seed of its own fulfillment. Purpose is not an abstract or distant goal but the guiding force that animates the process, the essence that directs the movement of becoming. The result, therefore, is a continuation of the purpose, not as a static endpoint, but as the realization of that purpose through its own unfolding. The result is the actualization of the potential embedded in the beginning, where the end is contained in the beginning, not as something separate, but as its necessary outcome.

Similarly, the actual is the same as its concept only because the immediate, when understood as purpose, contains the self or pure actuality within itself. The concept of the actual is not an abstract idea or a mere representation; it is the living principle that organizes and directs the actual into being. The immediate, as purpose, is not something externally imposed upon reality but an immanent principle that shapes and organizes the process of becoming. This immediate purpose does not remain separate from the unfolding reality but is integral to it, embedded in the very structure of actuality itself. The concept of the actual, far from being an abstract ideal, is realized through the movement and development that gives it concrete form.

The fulfilled purpose, or the actual existent, is not simply a static reality but the movement and unfolded becoming. It is the process of becoming itself, realized and manifest in its particularity. The actual does not exist apart from the process that brings it into being; it is the outcome of a dialectical movement, where purpose drives the unfolding of reality, and through this unfolding, the actual becomes what it is. The actual is not a fixed state but an active process, the ongoing realization of purpose in time. It is not the end of a journey, but the expression of an ongoing movement that gives it form and substance.

Yet, this very unrest—the ongoing movement, the unfolding becoming—is itself the self. The self is not a static entity or a pre-existing essence, but the dynamic principle of self-realization, constantly moving, evolving, and unfolding. The self is the unrest, the constant becoming that defines its existence. It is through this unrest, through the movement of becoming, that the self realizes itself, integrating its purpose into its actual form. The unrest is not a contradiction or disruption to the self, but the very condition for its actuality. The self, therefore, is not defined by an inert state of being but by the movement of becoming, the active process through which it achieves its unity with itself.

In this sense, the result, the actual, and the self are not separate from the beginning or from purpose. They are the unfolding of purpose through the movement of becoming, the realization of what was embedded in the beginning, and the expression of the self in its dynamic, ever-evolving form. The actual, then, is not merely a final state but the ongoing activity of purpose and becoming, where the self continually returns to itself through its own process of realization. The self, in its unrest, is the living totality of purpose, becoming, and actuality.

Thus, it is equal to the immediacy and simplicity of the beginning because it is the result, the returned-to-itself. The return to itself is not a mere return to an original state or a repetition of the starting point but a return that has undergone transformation, development, and mediation. This return is the culmination of the process of becoming, where the beginning, which was marked by potential and purpose, has now been realized in its fullness. The result is not separate from the beginning but is its fulfillment, a return that has integrated all the steps and moments of the unfolding journey. The immediacy and simplicity of the beginning are preserved, but they are now enriched and deepened through the process that has led to the result.

And this return-to-itself is precisely the self. The self is not a fixed or static entity but a dynamic process of self-relation, a continuous movement that reconciles its own oppositions and integrates its differentiations. In this return, the self does not merely re-establish an earlier condition but realizes its essence through the unfolding of its own necessity. The self is not a starting point to be preserved unchanged, but the ongoing realization of purpose, the integration of becoming, and the actualization of its concept. The return to itself is the process by which the self becomes fully what it is, through the movement of differentiation and reconciliation.

The self, in this sense, is the self-referential equality and simplicity. It is self-referential because it returns to itself, always reflecting upon and integrating itself in its development. It is through this self-relation that the self remains unified and coherent, even as it differentiates and unfolds. The simplicity of the self is not a mere absence of complexity but the unity that underlies and integrates all the distinctions and differentiations of the process. It is a simplicity that encompasses all the complexity of becoming without losing its essential unity. The self, in its return, achieves a self-conscious simplicity, where its unity is not the result of negating difference but of integrating and reconciling it within a higher whole.

This self-referential equality is what defines the self in its actuality. The self is not something separate from its process of becoming; it is its process, its movement, and its realization. The simplicity of the self is not an external attribute but the very essence of its self-consciousness, the self-relation that allows it to unify its differences and realize its full potential. The return to itself is the culmination of this process, where the self achieves its true nature in its development, finding unity not in stasis but in the dynamic and ongoing reconciliation of its moments.

The need to conceive of the absolute as subject has led to the use of expressions such as: “God is the eternal,” “the moral world order,” “love,” and similar formulations. These statements, though they posit the true directly as subject, fail to capture the full dynamic essence of the subject. They point to the absolute but do not represent it as the movement of reflecting itself within itself. These phrases imply a subject, but they represent it in a static or abstract form, devoid of the self-reflective activity that characterizes true subjectivity.

When we say “God is the eternal” or “love is the guiding principle of life,” we are invoking the absolute, yet these statements often remain at the level of immediate assertion, offering the absolute as a timeless or fixed entity. However, the absolute, as subject, is not a mere predicate that can be applied to a thing or an idea; it is the very process by which thought reflects upon itself, developing and actualizing its potential through its own movement. The true subject is not something simply affirmed or defined; it is the activity of self-reflection, the movement through which it differentiates itself and integrates its oppositions.

In these traditional statements, the absolute is presented as if it were already fully realized, as a completed unity that exists independently of the process of becoming. This representation fails to acknowledge that the absolute is not a static unity but a dynamic, self-moving totality that realizes itself through the dialectical movement of reflection. To recognize the absolute as subject means to understand it as a process, where its unity is not given but achieved through its self-reflective activity. It is only through this movement—this active mediation between unity and difference—that the absolute becomes what it is, actualizing its concept and revealing its nature.

Thus, while phrases like “God is the eternal” or “love” may point toward the absolute, they do not fully capture the essence of the absolute as subject. They represent the subject as a static, unchanging principle rather than as the living, self-reflective process that defines true subjectivity. The absolute, when conceived as subject, must be understood not as an immediate fact but as the ongoing activity of reflecting upon itself, the movement through which it becomes real and actual. It is this process of reflection within itself that constitutes the absolute as subject, and it is only in this dynamic activity that the true subject can be fully grasped.

A sentence of this kind typically begins with the word “God.” On its own, however, this word is a mere sound, devoid of intrinsic meaning or content—it is simply a name, an abstract reference. It carries no inherent significance by itself. The word “God” in isolation remains a placeholder, a symbol with no clear definition, until it is linked with a predicate that provides it with content and significance. It is the predicate, the second part of the sentence, that reveals the essence of what is being asserted. Through the predicate, the sentence moves from being an empty utterance to an actual statement of knowledge, for it is the predicate that imbues the subject with substance and meaning.

This dynamic illustrates the process by which abstract concepts gain their real meaning. Without the predicate, the word “God” (or any similar term) is an empty starting point, a mere nominal placeholder. It is only when the predicate is added that the word becomes part of a meaningful discourse, where its significance is articulated and its implications made clear. Thus, the sentence is not truly understood or grasped until the full connection between the subject and predicate is made, turning the abstract into concrete knowledge. The empty beginning—the mere name—becomes actual knowledge only through its culmination in the predicate, which reveals its deeper meaning and relationship to the world.

In this sense, knowledge itself follows a similar trajectory: it begins with an abstract or indeterminate point, a simple assertion or concept, but it is only through the development and elaboration of that concept, through the unfolding of its predicates, that it becomes actual knowledge. The subject, which may appear as an empty starting point, takes on full significance only in the context of the process that gives it substance—through its reflection, mediation, and realization in the form of predicates.

Thus, the empty beginning of the sentence—like the abstract starting point of knowledge—only becomes real and meaningful at its end, when it is articulated through the predicate. It is in this culmination, in the unfolding of its implications, that the word “God” (or any concept) ceases to be an empty sound and becomes part of an intelligible and meaningful totality.

In this context, it becomes unclear why one should not simply speak of abstract concepts like “the eternal,” “the moral world order,” or, as the ancients did, use terms like “being,” “the one,” and so forth—concepts that, by their nature, seem to represent something universal, timeless, and abstract. These terms, while certainly meaningful, could be used to express the essence or the generality of what is being discussed. One might ask: why is it necessary to add a word like “God” at all, if these abstract terms are sufficient to express the idea or the meaning?

However, it is precisely through the word “God” that a crucial distinction is made. This word does more than merely represent an abstract principle or an essence; it indicates that what is being posited is not just a simple being, essence, or generality. Rather, the word “God” signals the presence of something that is reflected into itself—a subject. The addition of the term “God” points to a self-conscious, self-reflective principle, not an impersonal force or static essence. It is the indication of a subjectivity that engages in self-relation, that is capable of reflection, movement, and actualization.

In contrast to terms like “the eternal” or “being,” which are often used to denote timeless, abstract concepts, “God” is a term that emphasizes a subjectivity that is not merely conceptual or impersonal. It posits something that is not only present but also capable of self-determination, self-consciousness, and active mediation. The subjectivity implied by “God” is active, dynamic, and relational—it reflects on itself, engages in a process of becoming, and achieves actualization through its own unfolding.

Thus, the term “God” serves to ground the discussion in the idea of self-consciousness and subjectivity. It is not merely a name for an abstract principle or essence but a declaration that what is being posited is a living, self-reflective subject, a being that is both the source of itself and the process through which it realizes its essence. In this way, the word “God” encapsulates the very notion of self-relation, making it distinct from all other terms that might be used to describe abstract concepts or universal principles. The addition of “God” therefore transforms the statement from a simple assertion about being or essence into a recognition of a subject that reflects upon itself and becomes what it is through its own self-determined movement.

Yet, this subject is only anticipated in the current mode of thinking. It is not fully realized or actualized; rather, it is assumed as a fixed point, a starting reference to which predicates are attached as their anchor. These predicates are projected onto this assumed point, but the movement that integrates them is considered to belong to the knower—the one doing the reflecting—rather than to the subject itself. The predicates are not seen as emerging from the subject in its own self-movement, but are instead placed upon it from the outside, as external attributes. This creates a disconnect between the subject and the process through which it is made meaningful.

However, it is precisely through this movement—the activity of reflection, differentiation, and integration—that the content could be represented as a subject. The subject, in its fullest sense, is not a static entity but a self-moving principle. It is in the active process of becoming that the subject becomes what it truly is, not merely through the attachment of external predicates but through the unfolding of its own self-reflective activity. This process of reflection, which organizes and expresses the subject’s essence, is what makes the subject real and actual, allowing it to transcend its initial state of mere potential.

In the manner in which this movement currently operates, however, it cannot be said to belong to the subject. The movement that brings the subject into focus is not understood as an intrinsic activity of the subject itself, but as something external to it—a process initiated by the knower, who applies predicates to the subject. This movement is regarded as belonging to the knower, as a separate act of reflection rather than a self-generated activity of the subject. Because the movement does not spring from the subject’s own essence, it cannot be regarded as belonging to it in its true sense.

Given the presupposition of a fixed point from which this movement begins, the subject cannot yet be fully self-determining or self-reflective. It remains an abstract point, a mere concept, onto which predicates are externally attached. The process of mediation is thus externalized, with the knower acting upon the subject rather than the subject engaging in its own self-development. The result is that the subject remains incomplete, its essence only half-realized through the knower’s reflection, without yet attaining the fullness of self-actualization. This externalization of movement, in which the subject is treated as a fixed point rather than an active, self-moving process, prevents the subject from truly becoming what it is—an active, self-reflective unity of being and becoming.

This anticipation that the absolute is subject is, therefore, not only an inadequate realization of the concept, but it actually renders its full realization impossible. The anticipation, in its current form, treats the subject as a static point, a fixed reference to which predicates are attached. This static point is assumed to be the essence of the subject, and through this assumption, the process of becoming, the very movement through which the subject realizes itself, is externalized and ignored. In this way, the anticipation of the subject fails to capture the true nature of subjectivity, which is not a mere position of being but a dynamic, self-moving process.

The concept of the absolute as subject is not a static reality but the very self-movement that constitutes it. Subjectivity is not something already present in its fullness but something that must unfold, actualize, and become through its own internal activity. This self-movement is essential to the concept itself. The subject is not something fixed or predetermined; it is realized through its own reflection and development. It is not static, but a process of becoming, a dynamic unity of being and becoming, unity and differentiation. The anticipation, by positing the subject as a fixed point, directly contradicts this essential nature of self-movement. It does not allow the subject to be the active, self-determining force that it is in its true conceptual form.

Thus, by assuming the subject as a static point, the anticipation fails to engage with the actual process of subjectivity. The true concept of the absolute as subject involves a constant unfolding, where the subject reflects on itself, moves through its own negation, and integrates the oppositions within itself. The anticipation, however, ignores this dynamic and treats the subject as something already complete, already realized. This leads to a misunderstanding of the absolute as subject, as it becomes trapped in a static representation, where the full realization of the concept is impossible because the dynamic self-movement of subjectivity is excluded.

In short, the anticipation posits a subject that is not a self-moving, self-determining process but a fixed, static entity. The very essence of the concept—the self-movement of the subject—requires that the subject not be treated as a static point but as an unfolding, developing process. Therefore, the anticipation of the subject as a static point is not only a misunderstanding but also an obstacle to the realization of the true concept of subjectivity, which is self-movement.

Among the various conclusions that emerge from the foregoing discussion, one of the most significant is that knowledge, in its truest form, is real only when it is represented as science, or more specifically, as a system. Knowledge is not a collection of isolated facts or fragments but a coherent, organized whole—something that must be understood as a fully articulated system in order to reflect the true nature of reality. This system, or science, represents knowledge not as static or fixed but as a dynamic and self-unfolding process that reveals the interconnections and relations between all aspects of reality. It is through this systematic approach that knowledge becomes true, as it reflects the unity and coherence of the absolute.

Furthermore, what is often referred to as the fundamental principle or starting point of philosophy—no matter how true it might be in isolation—remains, in its essence, incomplete and inadequate precisely because it is merely a principle or starting point. While a starting point may seem necessary, it cannot capture the totality of the concept, nor can it provide a full and adequate understanding of the subject. By definition, a principle or starting point is merely an initial assertion, and it lacks the comprehensive development and structure that make knowledge truly real and actual. It is only through the systematic unfolding of concepts, through their dynamic mediation and integration, that a starting point becomes part of a fully realized system.

For this reason, such a starting point, despite its potential truth in a limited sense, is inherently false—not in the sense that it is untrue, but because it represents only a fragment of the whole. It is partial and incomplete, and therefore it does not convey the full reality of what is being represented. In philosophical inquiry, any conclusion that relies solely on an initial principle or starting point remains at the level of abstraction, and it is easily refuted because it lacks the depth and internal coherence that a fully developed system provides. Without the system, the starting point remains isolated and incapable of addressing the full complexity of the subject at hand.

The refutability of such a starting point lies in the fact that it is not self-sufficient. A principle in isolation is open to critique and contradiction because it does not yet embody the totality of its content or fully articulate its inner development. It is only when the principle is worked through and integrated into a larger, coherent system that its truth can be fully realized and represented. In this way, the principle, though it may serve as a stepping stone, is always in danger of being overtaken or overturned until it is subsumed within the systematic unfolding of knowledge. Thus, the fundamental principle, though it may appear true in its initial formulation, remains inherently limited and incomplete until it is fully developed within the structure of the system.

The refutation of the starting point or principle lies in demonstrating its inherent deficiency. This deficiency arises from the fact that the principle is merely the universal or the beginning—a foundational assertion that, while true in a limited sense, cannot fully encapsulate the totality of the concept. As a starting point, it is abstract and incomplete; it offers a generalized framework without the necessary development or articulation to bring it into a concrete, realized form. To refute such a principle is not to dismiss it entirely but to show that it lacks the depth and coherence that only a fully developed system can provide.

A thorough and valid refutation, therefore, must emerge organically from the principle itself. It cannot be accomplished by external contradictions or arbitrary assertions imposed from outside the principle. These kinds of refutations, based on opposing claims or assumptions foreign to the principle, do not genuinely address its nature or its limitations. Instead, a legitimate refutation follows the inner logic and necessity of the principle, revealing its deficiency as something inherent within its own structure. It is through the development of the principle that its inadequacies become apparent, and this process of development, far from negating the principle, serves to illuminate the need for further elaboration and refinement.

In this sense, the refutation itself constitutes a form of supplementation. The principle’s deficiency is not overcome by an external opposition but by the unfolding of its own internal movement. The principle, in its initial formulation, points toward its own completion, and through its own development, it reveals the necessity for a more comprehensive and fully realized system. Were the refutation to be conducted correctly, it would not simply negate the principle; it would be the continuation of its own dialectical progression, a movement toward greater specificity and fullness.

However, this process of refutation can become misled if attention is focused solely on the negative aspect—the perceived inadequacy or limitation of the principle—without recognizing the positive aspect of its development. The principle is not simply to be discarded because it is incomplete; rather, its incompleteness is precisely what drives its own progression. The refutation, therefore, must not stop at criticizing the initial starting point but must also acknowledge the necessity for its development, understanding that the negative aspect of its insufficiency is inextricably linked to its potential for self-actualization. The principle’s deficiency is not a final flaw; it is the starting point for a movement that leads to its realization and fulfillment within a larger, coherent system.

The proper positive development of the beginning, paradoxically, is equally a negative engagement with it—an engagement that confronts and critiques its one-sided form of being merely immediate or merely a purpose. The beginning, in its initial form, is an abstraction, a starting point that exists as a mere assumption, a generality that has not yet undergone the full process of articulation and development. The development, therefore, is not a simple affirmation of the beginning but a movement that critically engages with its limitations. It acknowledges the beginning but shows that it is incomplete, lacking the necessary mediation that would transform it into a fully realized system.

This engagement with the beginning can, in a sense, be understood as a refutation of what constitutes the foundation of the system. The foundation, as a starting point, is inherently insufficient—it is merely the universal or the abstract, which by itself cannot provide the full content or structure of the system. It is only through the critical development of this foundation that its deficiency becomes evident. However, while this process can be framed as a refutation, it is more appropriately understood as a demonstration that the foundation or principle of the system is, in fact, only its beginning. It is not the complete or final expression of the system; it is merely the starting point that points toward further development.

In this sense, the beginning is not discarded or rejected, but its limitations are exposed. The beginning contains within it the seed of the system, but it must be developed, expanded, and refined through a dialectical process that goes beyond its initial simplicity. The positive development of the beginning, therefore, is not an opposition to it but a necessary movement that brings its potential into full realization. It transforms the starting point from an abstract, incomplete principle into a fully articulated and coherent system that reflects the richness and complexity of the absolute.

This process of development shows that the foundation is not an end in itself but a moment in the unfolding of the system. It is the first step, but not the final one. The true essence of the system emerges only through its internal movement, where the beginning is continually reflected upon, expanded, and synthesized. Through this engagement, the beginning becomes a dynamic part of a larger, more comprehensive whole. Thus, the proper positive development of the beginning is not a mere continuation of it but a movement that critiques and transcends its limitations, revealing that the foundation is only the starting point of a much more profound and intricate process.

The truth is real only as a system, or, more precisely, substance is essentially subject—this is encapsulated in the concept that represents the absolute as spirit, which stands as the highest concept and is deeply tied to the modern era and its religion. The idea of spirit as the absolute highlights a shift in thinking, one that understands reality not as a static, inert substance but as a dynamic, self-determining subject. It is through spirit that the absolute finds its true reality, not as an abstract essence but as a living, self-reflective process.

The spiritual alone is the real because it is not simply a passive, unchanging substance but the essence that is both self-determined and self-revealing. The spiritual is not only the being-in-itself—the foundation or essence that exists in its own right—but also the self-relating, self-differentiating process by which it comes to know and realize itself. Spirit is not confined to an immediate state of being but is defined by its movement, its unfolding through time and mediation. It is the process of becoming-other, of negating its immediate state and reaching toward self-realization, yet always returning to itself through reflection and self-consciousness.

In this movement, spirit manifests as the being-for-itself, a being that is aware of itself and is capable of reflection. Through its becoming-other, spirit does not lose its essence but actualizes it in a higher, more complete form. The spiritual is, therefore, a process of self-determination, where the essence is not a fixed substance but a dynamic force that is continually actualized through its own self-relation and differentiation. It is in this determinate movement, in its being-outside-itself, that spirit remains fundamentally true to itself. In other words, through its engagement with difference, otherness, and mediation, it finds its unity and completeness.

In this dialectical process, spirit is not just in itself but also for itself. It is both the essence and the realization of that essence. The spiritual, understood as the absolute, is thus in and for itself—both present in its essence and fully actualized in its self-consciousness. The truth of the absolute is not a static state of being but a dynamic, self-relating process that is always moving toward its own self-realization. It is only through this movement, this self-determined unfolding, that spirit reaches its highest and most complete form—where the being-in-itself and the being-for-itself are reconciled in a living totality.

Thus, the spiritual is the highest concept precisely because it encompasses both being and becoming, essence and self-realization. It is the truth made real, not as a passive foundation but as a self-conscious, dynamic process that is always in movement, always becoming what it is. The absolute, as spirit, reveals itself not in an abstract, immutable essence but in the very act of becoming, of self-reflective development, and in the unity of being and knowing.

However, this being in and for itself initially exists only for us, or in itself, as the spiritual substance. At the outset, it is understood as something external to our consciousness, as the essence of spirit, which we can reflect upon but do not yet fully experience or internalize as our own self-consciousness. In this early stage, it exists as the spiritual substance—the universal principle, but one that has not yet fully realized itself as subject. Yet, for the absolute to be truly in and for itself, it must go beyond simply existing for us or in itself. It must also exist for itself, meaning it must engage in the knowing of itself as spirit.

To exist for itself, the absolute must not only be an object to us but also an object to itself. However, this is not simply a passive or external objectivity. It must be an object that is mediated—an object that is sublated and reflected back into itself. In this way, the absolute becomes more than a distant principle; it transforms into a dynamic, self-conscious subject that reflects upon its own essence. It is through this process of mediation and self-reflection that the spiritual substance realizes itself, making its inherent unity of being and knowing concrete.

The absolute exists for itself only to the extent that its spiritual content is produced through itself. This means that the absolute is not merely something pre-existing and external to itself but is a self-generating principle, actively creating and realizing its own content. It is through this self-production—the unfolding of its own concept—that it truly comes to know itself. This self-knowing is not something external but is rooted in its very essence and movement, as it becomes aware of itself and reflects upon its own being.

Moreover, in its existence for itself, the absolute is not simply an abstract or detached concept; it becomes the objective element for itself. The pure concept—the active self-production of the spiritual—is simultaneously the objective reality in which the absolute has its existence. The absolute is both the subject that reflects and the object that is reflected upon. This duality of subject and object, of self-consciousness and its external manifestation, is what constitutes its being-for-itself. In other words, the absolute exists as an object reflected back into itself, where its internal essence is actively mediated, and its content is actively created.

Thus, in its being-for-itself, the absolute becomes not only the universal principle but a self-conscious, self-reflective subject. It is through this reflective process, in which its content is both produced and realized, that it fully actualizes its nature as spirit. The absolute is not merely a static substance; it is an active, dynamic process of self-determination and self-realization, always moving toward the unity of being and knowing, of subject and object, in its self-reflective becoming.

The spirit that knows itself as spirit is science. This encapsulates the highest realization of spirit—where it not only exists but is fully conscious of its existence, where it reflects upon itself and recognizes itself in its own activity. In this self-awareness, spirit attains its true form: science. Science, in this context, is not simply a collection of abstract facts or empirical knowledge, but the actualization of spirit’s deepest essence. It is the process by which spirit comes to fully know itself, through the rigorous development of concepts and the unfolding of its own nature in a coherent and systematic way. Science, then, is not a detached or external activity but the very manifestation of spirit’s self-consciousness and self-determination.

Science is the actuality of spirit because it is the concrete expression of spirit’s internal development. It is not a static or external body of knowledge, but the living, unfolding process in which spirit comes to recognize and articulate its own essence. This process of knowing is not merely a passive reception of information, but an active and dialectical movement, where spirit reflects upon itself, differentiates, and synthesizes its various moments to arrive at a deeper, more unified understanding of its nature. Through this active self-reflection, spirit moves beyond abstract potentiality and becomes fully actualized as self-conscious knowledge.

Furthermore, science is the realm that spirit constructs for itself within its own element. This realm is not external to spirit but is its own creation, a space in which spirit organizes and articulates its knowledge. Science is the internal, conceptual world that spirit builds as it engages with itself and with the world. It is not a passive observation of the world, but an active construction that reflects the true nature of spirit as self-conscious, self-determining, and dynamic. In this way, science is the very element in which spirit exists and comes to full self-awareness. It is the medium through which spirit realizes its essence and integrates its inner contradictions into a unified whole.

The spirit that knows itself as spirit is science because it is through science that spirit achieves its full actuality. Science is not merely a form of knowledge, but the unfolding of spirit’s own self-consciousness, the space in which spirit constructs and expresses its truth. Through science, spirit comes to understand itself fully, not as an abstract essence, but as a dynamic, self-reflective process that actualizes its potential and recognizes itself in its own development.

The pure self-knowing in absolute otherness—this ether as such—is the foundation and ground of science, or knowledge in general. This self-knowing is not an isolated, passive awareness, but an active, dialectical process wherein consciousness comes to recognize itself as both subject and object. It is through this self-knowing in otherness that knowledge begins to take form. The “ether” here represents a state of pure potentiality—a space where consciousness, in its most fundamental and unmediated form, exists. It is the very ground upon which knowledge is built, a field where the interplay between subjectivity and objectivity begins to emerge. This self-reflective knowing is not limited to a simple awareness of the self but involves a dynamic relationship with what is other, a recognition that the self cannot be isolated from the world but must engage with and reflect upon it to fully understand itself.

The beginning of philosophy assumes or demands that consciousness already dwells within this element. Philosophy begins with this very premise—the idea that consciousness is already situated within this field of self-knowing and reflection. It does not start from an abstract or detached position but acknowledges that consciousness is always already embedded in the process of knowing. From the very outset, philosophy takes place within this context of reflection and self-awareness, assuming that the subject is already engaged in the movement of becoming and understanding. This foundational element is not something external to philosophy, but the very condition for its possibility. Consciousness, as philosophy begins, is already involved in the dialectical relationship between self and other, subject and object.

Yet, this element—the ether of self-knowing in otherness—attains its completeness and clarity only through the movement of its becoming. The self-knowing of consciousness is not static or fixed; it unfolds through time, through the dialectical process of development and reflection. The clarity of this knowing is not immediately given but emerges gradually as consciousness engages with its own contradictions, integrates its moments of difference, and works through its process of becoming. It is through this movement of becoming—through the unfolding and actualization of concepts—that the pure self-knowing in otherness becomes fully articulated and realized. Without this movement, the ether remains an indeterminate potential, a vague ground for knowledge. It is through the active process of becoming, through the dialectical development of thought and concept, that this potential is brought to fruition.

In this sense, the ground of knowledge, the ether of self-knowing in absolute otherness, is not a mere starting point but a living, dynamic element that evolves and unfolds over time. The true clarity and completeness of knowledge arise only as consciousness moves through the contradictions and tensions inherent in its own development. The beginning of philosophy is thus inseparable from the movement that completes it—the movement of becoming that brings clarity and understanding to the initial self-knowing in otherness.

It is pure spirituality or the universal that takes on the mode of simple immediacy. This universality is not abstract but a living force, the essence of spirit itself, which in its purest form transcends any particularity or differentiation. This immediacy, however, is not a static or inert condition but the very dynamic of spirit in its most fundamental expression. It is not the immediacy of an object or a fixed state but the immediacy of self-conscious spirit—spirit that reflects itself within itself. This immediacy is the starting point, the foundation upon which all further development of spirit is built, but it is also the point of highest potential, where spirit is both the beginning and the ongoing movement of self-reflection.

Because it is the immediacy of spirit, and because substance in general is spirit, this immediacy cannot be understood as mere passivity or simple existence. Substance, in its deepest sense, is not an inert, lifeless thing but the self-moving force of spirit. Substance in this context is not separate from spirit but is spirit in its most fundamental, undifferentiated form, the essence from which all particularities arise. As spirit, substance is not simply “being” in a static sense, but the living, dynamic process of self-determination. It is through substance that spirit realizes itself, giving rise to the unfolding of all phenomena, all particularities, and all moments of reflection.

Thus, it is the transfigured essence—reflection that is itself simple, or immediacy. This reflection, however, is not the kind of abstract, detached thought that observes from the outside, but a self-reflective process that is internal to the essence of spirit. Reflection, in this sense, is not an opposition to immediacy, but its realization. It is the movement by which spirit becomes aware of itself, where the simplicity of immediacy is not negated but rather actualized through the reflective activity of spirit. The simplicity of immediacy is not the absence of complexity but its active integration, where spirit’s self-reflection reveals its unity and completeness.

Being, in this context, is reflection into itself. It is not being as a mere external existence, but being as an active, self-reflecting process. Being is not something given or fixed but something that constantly returns to itself, unfolding and realizing its essence through its own movement. This self-reflection constitutes the being of spirit, which is not a passive presence but an ongoing process of becoming, of self-knowing and self-realization. In this sense, being is not merely “there,” but is an active, dynamic force that unfolds and reveals itself as it reflects upon itself.

Science, for its part, demands that self-consciousness elevate itself into this ether in order to live with and within it. This “ether” represents the realm of pure reflection and self-conscious thought, a space where the universal truths of science are realized and made meaningful. For self-consciousness to engage fully with science, it must transcend its immediate, individual perspective and immerse itself in this higher realm. To “live with and within it” means to enter into the dynamic process of self-reflection and systematic knowledge, engaging with the totality of thought and reality that science uncovers. This requires a shift in perspective, where self-consciousness recognizes itself not simply as an individual subject but as part of a larger, self-determining system of knowledge.

Conversely, the individual has the right to demand that science at least provide a ladder to this standpoint. The individual is not passively subjected to the abstract formulations of science but possesses the active right to demand that science offer a means of ascent—a way to reach this higher level of reflection and self-consciousness. This demand arises from the individual’s inherent independence, the absolute freedom that self-consciousness holds within itself, regardless of whether science formally acknowledges it. The individual is not bound by any particular system of knowledge; rather, their freedom lies in the fact that they can recognize and engage with knowledge in any form, whether or not it aligns with the formal structures of science.

This right is grounded in the individual’s absolute independence, which it knows itself to possess in every form of its knowledge—whether that form is acknowledged by science or not, and regardless of the content. The individual’s self-consciousness is not dependent on any external validation or system of thought; it carries with it the immediate certainty of its own existence. The individual knows itself as free and self-determining, as capable of producing knowledge and engaging with it in a multitude of ways. This absolute independence is not a contingent feature but the very essence of self-consciousness, which recognizes itself as both the subject and the source of its own knowledge.

In each form, self-consciousness is also the absolute form or possesses the immediate certainty of itself—or, if preferred, unconditional being. Regardless of the specific content or the form in which knowledge appears, self-consciousness retains its essential nature as the absolute form. This means that in every instance of knowing—whether it be in the simplest, most immediate form of self-awareness or in the complex, systematic understanding found in science—the individual has the unshakable certainty of their own existence. This certainty is not contingent upon external validation or the content of knowledge but is inherent in the very act of knowing itself. In this sense, self-consciousness always possesses the immediate certainty of its own being, its absolute, unconditional presence, which is the foundation of all knowledge.

If the standpoint of consciousness—that is, the position in which consciousness knows external objects as opposed to itself and knows itself in opposition to those objects—is viewed by science as the “other,” then this standpoint is seen as a realm in which consciousness remains in a state of separation from itself. It is a form of knowing that maintains an externalized perspective, where consciousness is detached from its own self-consciousness and, instead, focuses on the otherness of the world around it. In this view, science does not acknowledge this standpoint as a valid form of truth but as a limiting, incomplete form of understanding. To science, this perspective represents the opposite of the full realization of spirit, as it remains fixated on externality and does not recognize the self-reflective nature of true knowing.

On the other hand, from the perspective of consciousness, the element of science—the higher, more integrated form of knowledge in which consciousness sees itself as part of a universal, self-reflective totality—appears as a distant “beyond.” In this view, the “beyond” is not merely an abstract realm or unreachable ideal but an actual space in which consciousness does not yet possess itself. It is the place where consciousness has not yet fully actualized its own essence or where it seems to lose itself in the complexity and systemic nature of scientific knowledge. For consciousness, science can appear alien or external, as if it is an intellectual domain that transcends the immediate experience of the self, leaving consciousness estranged from its own immediacy and its own self-understanding.

Each of these perspectives—science’s view of the standpoint of consciousness as incomplete or insufficient and consciousness’s view of science as an alienated “beyond”—seems to the other to be the opposite of truth. From the standpoint of science, the immediate, external focus of consciousness appears as a primitive or partial form of knowing, one that cannot grasp the full complexity and system of reality. From the perspective of consciousness, science appears as a detached, impersonal system that has lost touch with the immediate self-certainty and experience that define personal knowing. In both cases, the other seems to embody a distorted version of truth, as each perspective insists on its own form of knowing as the only true way of understanding the world and the self.

This tension between the two perspectives—the external objectivity of science and the internal subjectivity of consciousness—illustrates the dialectical nature of knowledge itself. Neither perspective is false in its own right, but each must be understood as a moment in the larger process of self-realization and self-knowing. The truth, in its fullest sense, is not contained within either extreme but emerges through the reconciliation of these moments, through the synthesis of the self and the world, of immediate knowing and systematic knowledge.

For natural consciousness to entrust itself to science directly is akin to attempting, drawn by an unknown force, to walk on its head. This analogy illustrates the discomfort and disorientation that arises when consciousness is asked to shift from its immediate, everyday experience of the world to the more abstract and systematic framework of science. Natural consciousness, with its direct and immediate engagement with reality, finds science, at first, an alien and unnatural domain. To move into this intellectual position feels like an unnatural inversion, as if the very orientation of consciousness is being forced into a new and unfamiliar way of being. The notion of adopting this unfamiliar mode of thought—abstract, mediated, and systematic—appears not only unsettling but almost a violation of the natural, intuitive way that consciousness understands itself and the world.

This coercion to adopt and navigate in this unfamiliar position seems, from the perspective of natural consciousness, an unprepared and unnecessary imposition. Consciousness is accustomed to an immediate, direct engagement with reality, where things are understood in terms of their immediacy and practical significance. The transition to science, which abstracts away from these immediate experiences and demands a more detached, reflective mode of knowing, can seem like an unjustified and burdensome demand. The need to leave behind the immediate certainty of self-consciousness, to adopt a more complex and mediated way of knowing, strikes consciousness as an imposition that disrupts its natural flow of understanding.

Whatever science may be in itself, when considered in relation to immediate self-consciousness, it appears as something inverted, a reality turned upside down. Science, as it stands apart from the immediate, everyday experience of the world, often seems disconnected from the reality that consciousness knows directly. In the eyes of immediate self-consciousness, which sees itself as the principle of reality and the foundation of all experience, science’s abstract formulations appear to be detached from the lived experience of being. It may seem as though science, in its separation from this immediate self-consciousness, has assumed the form of unreality—a realm that, while intellectually coherent, does not resonate with the practical, embodied existence of consciousness. Science, in this sense, can feel like a foreign system of knowledge that fails to connect to the immediate, lived reality that constitutes the essence of self-consciousness.

Thus, the tension between science and immediate self-consciousness highlights the dialectical nature of human knowledge. Science may be a deeper, more comprehensive form of understanding, but it first appears as an alien imposition on natural consciousness, one that requires a significant transformation in the way we relate to and understand reality. The task of science, therefore, is not only to systematize and expand knowledge but to reconcile itself with the immediate reality of self-consciousness, bridging the gap between abstract concepts and lived experience.

Science must therefore unite this element with itself—or, more precisely, it must demonstrate that this element belongs to it and how it does so. This element represents the immediate, lived reality of self-consciousness, the raw, unreflected experience of being. For science to be true to itself, it cannot merely exist as an abstract system of knowledge detached from this immediacy; it must integrate this element into its structure. Science, in its pursuit of universal truth, must show that the immediacy of self-consciousness is not an external, alien realm but an integral part of the total system of knowledge. The task of science is not merely to exist as an intellectual exercise but to demonstrate the interconnectedness of immediate self-consciousness with the rational, systematic structure it develops.

Lacking this integration, science is only an “in itself”—an abstract, incomplete system that exists in potential but has not yet realized its full actuality. Without the union of immediate self-consciousness with its conceptual framework, science remains a purposive idea, a goal that has not yet been actualized. It is still in its inner form, a purpose that is directed toward a goal but has not yet fulfilled itself in the full realization of spirit. In this state, science exists as “spiritual substance,” a realm of thought that has yet to be made actual in the lived, self-conscious experience of reality. It is a system that exists in principle but not yet in full actuality.

To fulfill its purpose, science must externalize itself, moving beyond its abstract, internal state, and become “for itself.” This means that it must transform itself into something that is not only conceptual and internal but actual and self-realizing. Science cannot remain a detached, passive system of knowledge; it must actively engage with the world, with consciousness, and with reality itself, to actualize its potential. Becoming “for itself” means that science must establish self-consciousness as one with itself—integrating the internal, abstract system with the external, lived experience of reality. It must bring the self-conscious subject into alignment with the objective system of knowledge, ensuring that the two are not separate or opposed but united in a living, dynamic totality.

In this process, science’s journey from “in itself” to “for itself” mirrors the development of self-consciousness itself. Just as self-consciousness must move from its immediate, raw experience of being to the fully developed, reflective understanding of itself, so too must science evolve from an abstract system into a full, self-actualizing knowledge that reflects the totality of both thought and experience. The goal is not merely to accumulate facts or construct theories but to establish a coherent, living unity between the immediate and the mediated, between the raw experience of self-consciousness and the reflective system of knowledge. Only through this union does science fulfill its true nature as a complete, self-realizing, and fully actualized system of thought.

This development of science as a whole, or of knowledge, is what the Phenomenology of Spirit—as the first part of the system—represents. It is through this work that the process of knowledge’s unfolding is depicted, where the abstract and immediate beginnings of consciousness gradually evolve toward the realization of true, self-conscious knowledge. The Phenomenology of Spirit serves as the foundational movement in this system, showing the path through which spirit comes to know itself, transcending the initial limitations of immediate experience and transforming into fully developed science. In this sense, the Phenomenology is not just a theoretical exposition but the actual journey of spirit from its raw beginnings to its ultimate self-realization.

Knowledge, as it initially exists, is merely immediate spirit; it is a form of spirit that has not yet fully realized its own nature. In this initial stage, spirit is not yet self-conscious and is disconnected from its true essence. It is spiritless, a raw, unreflective consciousness that simply experiences the world without fully understanding itself or the meaning of its experiences. This knowledge, in its beginning, is sensory consciousness—a form of awareness rooted in immediate perception, where objects are merely encountered without reflection or deeper insight into their nature. It is the consciousness that operates on the surface of experience, taking things at face value and remaining unaware of the underlying processes that shape reality.

For this sensory consciousness to become true knowledge or to evolve into the element of science, which represents its pure concept, it must undergo a profound transformation. This transformation is not instantaneous but requires a long and laborious journey. The process of becoming true knowledge involves the dialectical movement of consciousness, in which it must transcend its immediate, sensory understanding and come to recognize its own limitations. It must confront and resolve contradictions, encountering obstacles and challenges that require it to reflect upon itself, to go beyond mere surface appearances, and to develop a deeper, more comprehensive understanding of reality. Only by passing through this long journey, where consciousness continuously mediates between itself and the world, can it achieve the clarity and depth necessary to be considered true knowledge.

The journey of knowledge’s development is not linear but is marked by moments of disruption, transformation, and synthesis. As consciousness moves through these stages, it gradually integrates its experiences and insights, culminating in the realization of science as a unified, self-conscious system. This process of becoming true knowledge involves not only the accumulation of information but the deepening of self-understanding, where consciousness comes to recognize itself as the subject of its own knowing. It is through this development that science, in its pure conceptual form, emerges—an active, self-reflective knowledge that understands its own nature and its relation to the world.

Thus, the Phenomenology of Spirit illustrates this entire developmental process, showing how spirit, through a long and arduous journey, moves from sensory consciousness to the full realization of science. It is a journey of self-knowledge, where consciousness is progressively shaped and transformed into true, reflective, and systematic knowledge, capable of understanding itself and the world in a unified and coherent manner.

This becoming, as it is presented in its content and the shapes that emerge within it, appears as something more than simply the guidance of unscientific consciousness toward science; it is also something distinct from the very foundation of science itself. The process of becoming true knowledge is not merely a linear transition from ignorance to understanding, nor is it a straightforward instruction from one standpoint to another. It is a complex, dialectical unfolding in which consciousness evolves through various stages, each one contributing to the totality of its development. This becoming is marked by moments of contradiction, conflict, and resolution, and it cannot be reduced merely to a guiding force that leads unscientific consciousness toward the ultimate truth. It is a dynamic, lived process that reflects the internal movement of consciousness as it shapes and reshapes itself in relation to the world.

In addition, this becoming is distinct from the foundation of science. While science, as a system of knowledge, begins with certain principles and assumptions, the journey of becoming true knowledge is not a simple adherence to these foundational ideas. Rather, it involves a continual critique and transformation of the very principles that are supposed to form the foundation of science. The process of becoming is not one of passive acceptance, but an active, dialectical engagement with the world that challenges, refines, and redefines the initial assumptions of knowledge. It is through this process that consciousness achieves the full development of science, not by merely resting on foundational principles, but by dynamically unfolding them into a complete, self-conscious system of knowledge.

Furthermore, this becoming is also separate from the kind of enthusiasm that, as if fired from a pistol, rushes immediately into the realm of absolute knowledge, dismissing all other standpoints as irrelevant with a sweeping declaration. Such enthusiasm, though passionate and assertive, represents a premature leap into certainty, bypassing the rigorous, critical process of development that true knowledge demands. It disregards the complex, gradual movement of consciousness and the necessary mediation between different forms of knowing. Rather than engaging with the full range of contradictions and challenges inherent in the development of knowledge, this enthusiasm simplifies the process, assuming that absolute knowledge can be instantly attained without the arduous journey of self-reflection and dialectical development. It declares other perspectives irrelevant, not through thoughtful reflection, but by forceful assertion, prematurely cutting off the necessary process of becoming that is essential to true knowledge.

Thus, the becoming of knowledge is not merely the linear guidance of unscientific consciousness toward scientific understanding, nor is it merely the foundational beginning of science itself. It is a complex, ongoing process of self-transformation, where consciousness moves through various stages of contradiction and resolution, refining its understanding in a dialectical fashion. It cannot be reduced to the simple enthusiasm of immediate certainty or the premature leap into absolute knowledge, but must be understood as a dynamic, evolving process that reflects the true depth and richness of knowledge’s development.

The task of guiding the individual from their uneducated standpoint to knowledge must be understood in its broader sense: it is not merely about leading a single person from ignorance to understanding, but about considering the general individual—the world spirit—in its process of development. The journey from uneducated consciousness to true knowledge is not just an individual process but a reflection of the larger, collective unfolding of spirit throughout history. Just as the individual must transcend their immediate, sensory understanding and progress through various stages of reflection and self-realization, so too must the world spirit—through the aggregate of human history—evolve from its initial, unreflective state toward full self-consciousness and the realization of truth.

In this broader context, the guidance of an individual is not simply a personal endeavor but a part of the larger historical and dialectical process through which humanity, as a whole, comes to know itself. Each individual’s journey toward knowledge reflects the movement of the world spirit, as individual consciousnesses are not isolated but interconnected within the larger development of human history. The development of knowledge is not just the story of an isolated self but the unfolding of collective consciousness, which moves from ignorance to enlightenment, from unreflective immediacy to the profound self-consciousness of absolute knowledge.

This understanding shifts the focus from a purely personal struggle for knowledge to a recognition of the universal process that shapes all individuals and all human societies. The individual is not merely guided from ignorance to knowledge in a vacuum, but participates in the larger process by which the world spirit, as a whole, realizes itself. This collective journey involves not just the development of knowledge in the abstract, but the very transformation of human consciousness—where each individual, in their personal development, contributes to the overall movement of the world spirit toward self-awareness.

Thus, the task of guiding individuals to knowledge must be seen as part of this larger, dialectical process, where the development of the individual consciousness is mirrored in the development of the collective spirit. The individual’s progression from ignorance to knowledge is not a solitary effort, but a reflection of the broader historical movement through which humanity, as a whole, advances toward the realization of its true essence.

Regarding the relationship between the two, in the general individual—representing the world spirit—every moment appears in its full development, taking on a concrete form and manifesting its distinctive shape. This general individual is not merely an abstract concept, but a living, evolving process where each moment contributes to the unfolding of a comprehensive totality. In this sense, each moment within the world spirit is fully realized, each part contributing to the whole in a coherent, integrated manner. Every concrete form that emerges in the world spirit reflects a specific stage in the larger dialectical process, and these moments are not fragmented but interconnected within the unfolding process of self-realization.

In contrast, the particular individual represents a less complete form of spirit. This individual is an incomplete manifestation of the world spirit, a concrete form whose entire existence is confined to a single, specific determination. Unlike the general individual, whose various moments form a cohesive and dynamic whole, the particular individual exists primarily within one specific stage or aspect of the larger process. The other aspects of spirit, though present in some sense, appear only in blurred outlines—fragmented and underdeveloped, not yet fully realized or integrated into the individual’s experience. The particular individual is limited in their scope, unable to encompass the full complexity of the world spirit’s development. They exist within a single, specific moment of the larger process, and their understanding of reality is constrained by this singular perspective.

As the spirit rises higher—becoming more fully realized, as it were—the lower, more limited concrete existence of the particular individual diminishes into an inconspicuous moment within the total development of the world spirit. What was once the essence, the core of experience for the particular individual, is now reduced to a trace, a subtle hint of what once appeared as a central and defining feature of their existence. The concrete, immediate reality of the particular individual is no longer the central driving force of spirit but is instead viewed as a passing, temporary moment in the larger dialectical movement. The essence that once shaped their experience is now concealed, transformed, and reduced to a mere nuance—an echo of its former prominence, now integrated into a broader and more complex understanding of the world spirit.

This process of diminishment and transformation reflects the nature of spirit as it progresses from one stage to the next, integrating and transcending its previous forms. The particular individual, once a fully realized expression of spirit, becomes a moment within the larger unfolding of self-consciousness, its previous centrality giving way to a more complex, integrated understanding. The essence of the lower form is not lost, but rather it is subsumed into the larger totality, reduced to a subtle trace that carries with it the history of its development but no longer holds the same centrality within the process.

The individual whose substance is the higher-standing spirit traverses this past in the manner of someone reviewing preparatory knowledge they have long mastered, in order to refresh their awareness of it. This individual, having already integrated and internalized the foundational principles of their development, revisits these earlier stages not with the same intensity of effort or engagement, but as a mere review—a cursory glance at knowledge they have already thoroughly mastered. They recall these lessons or stages of development without the need to delve deeply into them, as they are already firmly grasped. This is not a process of active learning but of revisiting what has already been absorbed, a way of reawakening awareness without re-engaging in the same struggle or effort that was required initially. The higher-standing spirit does not remain bound by the limitations of earlier stages but moves fluidly through them, fully aware of their content and significance without becoming mired in their particulars.

Similarly, each individual passes through the stages of development of the general spirit, but they encounter these stages as forms that the spirit has already surpassed. These stages are no longer immediate or foundational for the individual, but rather moments in the past—phases that have already been worked through and left behind in the broader movement of the world spirit. Just as the individual, having transcended the simpler forms of knowledge, looks back upon them with a sense of detachment, so too does the higher-conscious individual pass through the stages of the general spirit as completed phases—steps in a journey that has already been charted and worked out. These stages are no longer burdensome or in need of deep engagement; they have been integrated into the larger, more complex system that the individual now inhabits.

Each step of the individual’s development reflects a stage in the unfolding of spirit, but from the standpoint of higher consciousness, these steps are now seen as past events, necessary in their time but no longer actively defining the individual’s current position. The individual moves through these earlier stages, acknowledging their significance but without being fully immersed in them. The path of the spirit has already been leveled, worked out, and established; the individual, now standing at a higher stage of development, simply passes through these previous forms as milestones already attained, understanding them from the vantage point of the more advanced, self-conscious spirit that has transcended them.

Just as, in terms of knowledge, what once occupied the mature minds of earlier eras has now descended to the level of exercises or even games of childhood, so too, in the pedagogical progression, we find the history of the world’s development sketched out in shadowy outlines. What was once considered profound and central to the thinking of previous generations now appears in a different light—no longer the object of intense study or serious contemplation but something more elementary, foundational, and even playful. As time passes, the weight of knowledge that once shaped entire eras becomes part of the background for newer generations, who engage with it in a more simplified, almost trivialized manner. The concepts and ideas that once challenged and expanded human understanding are reduced to basic exercises, stepping stones for future development, or even nostalgic remnants of a past intellectual landscape. Similarly, in the progression of individual learning, the stages of development that once felt monumental and complex now serve as simple preparatory exercises in the larger scheme of understanding.

In the same way, the history of the world’s development, when viewed pedagogically, appears as a series of shadowy outlines, faintly sketched but no longer lived through or fully experienced in their original intensity. These stages of the world’s development, once vivid and full of significance, are now recognized as part of the broader, accumulated wisdom of the general spirit, which has moved beyond them. They are no longer experienced as ongoing struggles or deep philosophical questions, but as the preconditions, the groundwork, or the necessary building blocks for more advanced stages of thought and development. The historical journey of humanity, with all its challenges, achievements, and struggles, has become part of the intellectual inheritance of the general spirit, stored away in memory as past knowledge that has already been acquired, processed, and integrated.

This past existence—the historical and intellectual journey that humanity has gone through—is now an acquired possession of the general spirit, forming the substance or unorganized nature of the individual. The individual, as part of the larger world spirit, carries with them this accumulated knowledge, which has already been shaped and worked through by previous generations. This knowledge no longer requires the individual to experience it firsthand or rediscover it for themselves. Instead, it serves as the foundation upon which the individual can build their own more advanced understanding. Just as children learn from what has already been established by earlier generations, so too does the individual inherit the vast intellectual and spiritual history of the world, which forms the substance of their own development. This substance, however, remains unorganized until the individual actively engages with it, transforming it into something meaningful and concrete through their own self-conscious reflection and development.

From the perspective of the individual, education consists in acquiring this existing legacy—this vast body of knowledge and experience passed down through generations—and assimilating this unorganized nature into themselves. It is a process of internalizing the cultural, intellectual, and historical heritage that has already been established, and making it their own. The individual must not only absorb this legacy but also actively engage with it, making it part of their own consciousness. They must transform this unorganized substance into a coherent and meaningful understanding, integrating the lessons of the past with their own current thoughts and experiences. This process involves taking possession of the knowledge that has already been created, not passively receiving it but actively working with it, questioning it, and reinterpreting it in light of their own self-consciousness.

However, this process of individual education is not merely a personal task; it is nothing other than the larger movement of the general spirit—or substance—granting itself self-consciousness. The individual’s journey of assimilation is, at the same time, the world spirit’s journey toward self-realization. The individual, in their educational development, is not merely learning for their own sake but is participating in the general spirit’s unfolding. Through the individual’s engagement with knowledge, the general spirit becomes aware of itself, transforming from an unreflected substance into a self-conscious process. The world spirit’s historical development, once a mere succession of moments and achievements, now reflects back upon itself through the individual’s self-conscious engagement with the past.

In this sense, the individual’s educational journey mirrors the process by which the general spirit becomes its own process of becoming and reflection into itself. The world spirit, in its totality, evolves through time, moving from immediate substance to reflective self-consciousness. The individual, by internalizing the legacy of this unfolding, becomes the living realization of this process, carrying forward the self-reflection of the world spirit. It is through the individual’s education that the general spirit becomes fully conscious of its own development, realizing itself as a dynamic, self-reflective process of becoming.

Therefore, education is not simply a personal achievement but a moment in the larger process by which the world spirit comes to know itself. The individual, in taking possession of the legacy of the past and integrating it into their own consciousness, plays an essential role in the unfolding of the world spirit’s self-consciousness, moving it closer to its ultimate realization. Education, then, is the process through which the general spirit reflects upon itself, becoming aware of its own nature and history through the self-conscious activity of the individual.

Science presents this formative movement both in its full detail and necessity, as well as in the form that has already descended to a mere moment and possession of the spirit, depicted in its specific shape. Science does not merely outline the broad arc of spirit’s development but also delves into the particulars of this progression, emphasizing how each stage, each movement, is both necessary and integral to the overall process. It captures the full unfolding of knowledge, demonstrating both the detailed steps that lead to its culmination and the individual moments in which knowledge appears as a completed form, a possession of the spirit. These individual moments are not isolated or arbitrary; they are part of the larger, necessary progression of spirit’s self-realization. Each moment is a specific manifestation of the spirit’s unfolding, but it is also an expression of the whole process, containing within it the larger truth of spirit’s journey.

The ultimate goal of this process is the spirit’s understanding of what knowledge is. Knowledge is not simply an accumulation of facts or a passive reflection of the world; it is the process by which the spirit comes to understand itself, its own nature, and its relation to the world. To fully grasp knowledge is to recognize it as both a product and a process of self-consciousness. This understanding is not merely intellectual but involves a deep, existential realization of what it means to know, to be conscious, and to reflect upon one’s own existence within the larger context of the world spirit.

Impatience demands the impossible—namely, the attainment of the goal without the necessary means. There is often a tendency to seek the end result without enduring the necessary process of becoming. Impatience seeks immediate understanding or instantaneous realization, but such a desire bypasses the fundamental requirement of the journey. True knowledge cannot be achieved without traversing the necessary stages, for each stage contains its own internal necessity, its own purpose in the broader movement of the spirit. To rush through these stages is to undermine the process of self-realization itself.

On the one hand, the length of this path must be endured, for every moment is necessary. Each stage, each movement, each individual step is essential to the development of knowledge. Without any of these moments, the process would be incomplete, and the full understanding of knowledge could not be attained. The path is long, but it is through this very length, this thoroughness of progression, that knowledge becomes fully realized.

On the other hand, one must dwell on each moment, for each is itself an individual, complete form. Each stage in the process of development is not merely a transient step but a complete and self-contained expression of spirit. Even as each moment contributes to the larger whole, it also has its own value and significance as a unique determination. Each moment, in its particularity, embodies the essence of the process, and it is only by appreciating and reflecting upon each moment that the spirit can fully understand its own development. Each moment is absolute not in isolation but as part of the whole, and its absolutism is realized only when viewed in the context of the entire process. This means that every stage, every individual form, must be recognized as part of the total unfolding of spirit’s self-awareness, and only by considering each moment as an integral piece of the whole can the totality of knowledge be fully grasped.

Because the substance of the individual, the world spirit, had the patience to pass through these forms over the long stretch of time and to undertake the immense labor of world history—and because it could achieve self-consciousness only through no lesser effort—the individual, too, cannot grasp its substance with any less effort. The world spirit, in its historical journey, has evolved through countless stages of development, each one requiring immense effort, reflection, and transformation. It has traversed the full spectrum of human experience, overcoming contradictions, reconciling oppositions, and unfolding itself through history. This process, though vast and complex, has been essential for the achievement of self-consciousness. The individual, as part of the world spirit, must engage in this same labor to grasp the essence of their own existence. The journey to self-consciousness, while more direct in the individual, cannot bypass the historical effort that the world spirit has already undergone. Just as the world spirit needed to engage deeply with history to realize its own self-awareness, so too must the individual put in the work to comprehend and internalize this process.

Yet, at the same time, the individual has a lighter task, for this process has already been accomplished in itself. Unlike the world spirit, which had to struggle through the dialectical development of history, the individual does not have to traverse these stages anew. The broader movement of world history, with all its complexity and transformation, has already achieved the necessary stages of self-consciousness. The individual’s task is not to begin from scratch but to understand and integrate what has already been realized. This makes the individual’s effort less daunting in some ways because they are not starting from an empty state; they are engaging with a legacy of accumulated knowledge and self-awareness.

The content is now an actuality reduced to potentiality, and immediate reality has already been overcome. What was once lived, fought for, and experienced in its immediate, raw form has now become part of a more refined, conceptual reality. The immediate, everyday understanding of the world has been transformed through the dialectical process into a higher, more universal form of knowledge. The raw immediacy of experience has already been overcome by the reflective, self-conscious awareness of the world spirit, and this understanding is now available as a potential resource for the individual.

As something already thought, it is the possession of individuality. The content of this accumulated knowledge and self-consciousness is no longer abstract or external; it is now internalized, the possession of the individual. The individual does not need to reinvent the wheel but can access the accumulated wisdom of history and integrate it into their own consciousness. In this way, the individual’s task is one of internalizing, reflecting upon, and making this knowledge their own. The self-consciousness of the individual is now aligned with the larger movement of the world spirit, and through this alignment, the individual possesses the knowledge that the world spirit has already realized.

It is no longer a matter of transforming existence into being-in-itself, a state where things simply are, independent of reflection or self-consciousness. This initial stage of being is the raw, immediate existence of things, unmediated by thought or understanding. At this point, the focus was on bringing existence into its pure, unreflected form, where being simply is, without awareness or relation to itself. However, the task has now shifted; it is no longer sufficient to remain at this level of being-in-itself.

Instead, the true focus now lies on converting this being-in-itself into the form of being-for-itself. Being-for-itself represents a higher stage of existence, one that is not merely passive or static but self-conscious and reflective. This new form of being is not simply existing; it is existing with awareness, engaging with itself in a dynamic process of self-reflection. The being-for-itself is defined by its capacity for self-determination, for understanding its own essence, and for realizing its potential through active engagement with its own nature. It is a state of being that is conscious of itself and is constantly reflecting upon and shaping its own existence.

The manner in which this transformation occurs must now be more precisely determined. It is not an automatic or simple shift from existence to self-consciousness; rather, it is a complex, dialectical process that requires careful definition. The transition from being-in-itself to being-for-itself involves the overcoming of the immediate, unreflective state of being and the development of a more sophisticated, self-aware form of existence. This transformation requires the unfolding of thought, reflection, and self-consciousness, where the individual or spirit becomes aware of its own process and its relationship to the world. It is through this transition that a deeper understanding of existence is achieved, and the being that was once inert and passive becomes an active, self-determining entity.

Thus, the shift from being-in-itself to being-for-itself is a fundamental change in the nature of existence, one that moves from mere presence to active self-consciousness. This is the essence of self-realization, where existence is no longer simply given but is understood, shaped, and determined by the subject. The process of determining how this transformation occurs is the next essential step in the development of thought and consciousness.

What is spared for the individual in this movement is the negation of existence itself. In this sense, the individual is not tasked with the total annihilation or eradication of existence, but rather with transcending its immediate, unreflective nature. The raw, unmediated existence, in all its immediacy, is no longer the focus of the individual’s engagement. What remains for the individual is the task of transforming this existence into something that can be grasped, understood, and internalized—namely, the representation and familiarity with the forms of existence. These forms are not simply arbitrary or external; they are the elements through which existence is brought into consciousness, where the individual is able to reflect on them and relate to them in a meaningful way.

The existence that has been withdrawn into substance—by which we mean the underlying essence or principle of reality that once seemed external and objective—through that initial negation, is now placed immediately into the element of the self. This transition represents a shift from external, raw existence into a more internalized and self-conscious understanding. The self, now able to reflect upon and engage with the essence of existence, begins to integrate this once external reality into its own reflective process. It is no longer a passive entity merely existing in the world but an active subject capable of comprehending its own essence.

However, even as existence is withdrawn into substance and now placed within the self, it still retains the same character of uncomprehended immediacy or unmoving indifference as it once did in its original, external form. The transition from external existence to self-consciousness does not automatically strip existence of its immediate, unreflected nature. The raw immediacy of existence still lingers, albeit in a new form. What has occurred is not a complete resolution of the immediacy of being but a shift from one form of immediacy to another. The existence that has been internalized is now placed in the realm of representation—where it is reflected upon but remains, in some sense, still untouched by full comprehension.

This means that although existence is now represented within the self, it has merely transitioned into a form of representation and familiarity. It is no longer the immediate, raw being that exists in the world but is now filtered through the reflective process. Yet, this representation is still, in a sense, incomplete, as it retains traces of the same uncomprehended immediacy that defined existence in its original form. The existence that has been internalized by the self is not fully understood or integrated—it has merely become a representation, a concept or image that the self can engage with, but one that has not yet fully unfolded into the richer, more fully realized understanding that comes with deeper self-conscious reflection.

At the same time, through this transition, existence becomes something familiar—something with which the spirit has already dealt and engaged. It is no longer a distant or alien concept but something that the spirit has internalized and transformed into a form that is familiar and understood, though only in its most basic, superficial sense. In this familiar form, the raw immediacy of existence has been reflected upon, but it has not yet been fully comprehended or integrated into a deeper, more self-conscious understanding. Because the spirit has already passed through this stage, its active engagement and interest in the immediate existence itself have waned. The process of transcending the immediacy of existence has already taken place, and now the spirit regards it as something processed, something no longer urgent or demanding of deep attention.

However, this familiarity does not signify full understanding. When the activity that overcomes existence is itself immediate or existential—the unmediated reflection of particular, non-comprehending spirit—it remains limited in scope. This immediate mediation, which involves merely moving through existence as something external, does not lead to a true comprehension of it. It is the activity of a spirit that has yet to fully grasp the essence of what it encounters. The spirit moves through existence in a way that does not yet elevate it into the realm of true knowledge; it is still operating within the confines of the particular, fragmented understanding, without a full sense of the universal principles that underlie it.

In contrast, knowledge arises when this immediate, particular mediation is transcended. Knowledge is not merely the reproduction of familiar representations or concepts; it is the active engagement of the universal self with these representations. It is through the universal self—the aspect of spirit that reflects on and integrates the totality of its experience—that true understanding emerges. Knowledge, therefore, becomes an active force, directed not just at the representations that have been generated through the process of familiarization but at the underlying reality itself. It is the activity of thought, which seeks to comprehend the universal essence behind these representations, moving beyond mere familiarity to a deeper, conceptual grasp of reality. The interest of knowledge lies not in the passive acceptance of what is familiar but in the active, critical engagement with what is known, striving to elevate this knowledge into a self-conscious, universal understanding.

Thus, knowledge becomes the action of the universal self, the interest of thought, where the spirit engages in the deeper process of comprehension. This shift from familiarity to knowledge is a transformation from mere representation to active self-conscious understanding, where the spirit no longer simply moves through the world of existence but reflects upon it, shapes it, and brings it into alignment with its own universal essence.

What is familiar, precisely because it is familiar, is not truly known. Familiarity, by its very nature, implies a surface-level understanding, one that is rooted in recognition rather than deep comprehension. To be familiar with something means to have encountered it repeatedly, but familiarity does not necessarily equate to true knowledge. It is an understanding that has not been critically examined or fully grasped in its depth, complexity, and underlying principles. The familiarity with an idea or concept often leads to the mistaken belief that it is already known, simply because it is part of our everyday experience or thought process. This superficial recognition prevents true engagement with the subject, as it halts any further inquiry or deeper reflection.

It is, in fact, one of the most common forms of self-deception, as well as a form of deception toward others, to take something as known in the process of understanding and to be content with this assumption. When we assume that we already know something simply because it is familiar, we deceive ourselves into thinking that understanding has been achieved. This is the trap of settling for appearances, for the surface-level understanding, and failing to recognize that true knowledge involves a deeper, more rigorous engagement with the subject. It is easy to mistake familiarity for understanding, and in doing so, we bypass the critical process of truly working through and comprehending the subject in its full complexity.

Despite all back-and-forth discussion, such knowledge fails to advance, unaware of its own stagnation. The familiar knowledge, when taken for granted, does not evolve or develop. The discussion may continue, but it remains at the same superficial level, with no real progress made toward deeper insight or understanding. This kind of knowledge is stagnant because it is not driven by the kind of reflective thought that pushes beyond initial assumptions or recognitions. Instead of leading to genuine progress, this familiarity keeps knowledge locked in a static state, unable to transcend its initial form. It is only through critical engagement and the willingness to question and re-examine what is familiar that true knowledge can emerge and evolve.

Thus, the danger of relying on familiarity as knowledge is that it prevents the process of true understanding. By mistaking the known for the unknown, we allow ourselves to remain in a state of intellectual inertia, unaware of the deeper, more expansive potential for comprehension that lies beyond surface-level recognition. Knowledge must continually push past the familiar and engage with the unknown in order to grow and develop.

Subjects and objects—such as God, nature, understanding, sensibility, and similar concepts—are uncritically assumed as familiar and are treated as valid starting and ending points. These terms, though central to our intellectual frameworks, are often taken for granted, assumed to be self-evident and unquestionable. They are used as fixed points, places from which thought begins and to which it ultimately returns. In this way, they are treated as stable and unchanging foundations upon which further knowledge can be built. However, this uncritical acceptance of these concepts as starting points leads to a kind of intellectual complacency, where the true depth and complexity of these ideas are not fully explored or questioned.

These concepts serve as fixed points of departure and return, representing a seemingly stable foundation for thinking. They offer a sense of security in that they provide a common reference that can be relied upon as a starting point for understanding. However, the very act of treating them as fixed points means that they are not subjected to the same critical scrutiny as the ideas and processes that move between them. They remain unmoved, untouched by the very thinking they supposedly anchor, and as a result, the movement of thought between these points occurs only on the surface. The movement may appear dynamic or progressive, but it remains confined within the boundaries set by these unquestioned starting and ending points. The depth and potential for real movement and change are stifled, as the very foundations of the discussion are not themselves open to transformation.

In this way, the intellectual movement remains superficial because it fails to challenge the fundamental concepts upon which it is based. The process of inquiry and development should, ideally, be one in which even the most basic assumptions are subject to critique and transformation. However, when subjects and objects like God, nature, understanding, and sensibility are treated as fixed, unquestionable starting points, they limit the scope of thought and hinder its true progress. Instead of moving toward a deeper, more integrated understanding, thought is confined to the surface, endlessly circling between these unexamined concepts without ever transcending them or reaching a more profound synthesis.

Thus, the problem lies not in the movement between these concepts but in the static nature of the concepts themselves. Until they are subject to critical reflection and development, they will continue to act as barriers to genuine intellectual progress, and the movement of thought will remain superficial.

In this way, comprehension and examination become reduced to a mere process of checking whether what is said aligns with one’s preconceptions—whether it conforms to the individual’s existing beliefs, expectations, or prior knowledge. Rather than engaging with the substance of the idea itself, the focus shifts to determining whether the new information resonates with what the individual already knows or feels comfortable with. This approach to understanding is not driven by a genuine desire to explore or challenge the content of the idea, but rather by an instinct to affirm or dismiss based on how familiar or unfamiliar it feels.

The process of examination, then, becomes little more than a confirmation of the individual’s prior assumptions. If the new idea seems to align with what is already believed or experienced, it is readily accepted, and if it feels foreign or conflicts with pre-established notions, it is rejected or ignored. This method of comprehension prevents the individual from deeply engaging with new ideas, as the tendency is to fit them into a preconceived framework rather than allow the idea to challenge or transform the framework itself. Knowledge, in this case, is not about expanding or deepening one’s understanding but about maintaining the stability of what is already familiar, thus stifling the potential for growth or the true expansion of thought.

Such an approach to comprehension ultimately limits the depth of inquiry. The process of truly understanding something requires more than simply recognizing its alignment with familiar patterns; it requires an openness to newness, an ability to confront the unfamiliar and the challenging. When comprehension is based merely on the familiarity or comfort of an idea, thought becomes static, and intellectual progress is hindered. Instead of moving toward greater insight or more nuanced understanding, examination remains trapped in a cycle of affirmation and rejection based on pre-existing conceptions.

The analysis of a representation, as it has traditionally been practiced, was essentially an act of dissolving its form as something familiar. In traditional analysis, the focus has often been on breaking down a representation into its constituent elements, stripping away the familiar surface in order to uncover its deeper components. The goal of this process was to disassemble the representation, to reduce it to its most basic parts, in hopes of understanding its structure. This approach tends to treat the representation as something stable, already defined, and familiar, with the assumption that uncovering its original components will reveal its true nature. However, this method inherently relies on the idea of familiarity—what is known is broken apart only to be reconstructed, in a way, as a fixed, familiar set of determinations.

To break a representation into its original elements is to return to its moments—the discrete steps or moments that constitute the representation. These moments no longer retain the full form of the pre-given representation; they are seen as independent components or building blocks, devoid of the larger, preconceived structure that initially shaped them. In doing so, these moments no longer function as a complete representation but instead become an immediate possession of the self, ready to be reassembled or reconsidered in light of new insights. The representation, once dissolved, becomes the raw material of thought, no longer a unified image but a collection of elements that are seen as part of the subject’s own intellectual grasp.

However, this analysis, though useful in some respects, ultimately arrives only at thoughts—ideas or concepts that themselves are familiar, fixed, and stable determinations. What this process of analysis uncovers is not an expansion or a new development of knowledge but a reconfirmation of the self’s pre-existing thought patterns. The elements uncovered in the analysis are familiar to the individual, not in the sense of having immediate sensory familiarity but as intellectually established, fixed concepts. In this sense, the process of breaking down a representation into its elements may be revealing, but it does not lead to a truly transformative or dynamic understanding. The thoughts that arise from this analysis remain stable and unchanging, operating within the boundaries of the familiar.

Yet, a crucial moment in this process is precisely the separation itself—the act of rendering the representation unreal. For only by breaking down the concrete representation, by separating it from its pre-given form and making it “unreal,” can it become self-moving. The process of making something unreal, of disassembling it, allows for the possibility of reorganization, movement, and re-formation. It is only through this act of separation, of stripping away the familiar and fixed, that the potential for change and development arises. The concrete—once it is separated and rendered unreal—becomes open to transformation, to movement, and to the unfolding of new, dynamic understandings. This process of rendering unreal is not a rejection of reality, but rather a crucial step in enabling the concrete to become self-determined, self-moving, and capable of evolving in a way that reflects a deeper, more reflective engagement with the world.

The activity of separating is the power and labor of understanding, the most wondrous and greatest power—or rather, the absolute power. The process of separation is not merely a passive action but an active, creative force at the heart of understanding. It is through this act of division and differentiation that the mind exercises its most fundamental and transformative capacity: the ability to disengage from immediate, uncritical unity and to analyze, isolate, and comprehend the distinct parts of a whole. This process of separating is the very essence of intellectual activity, as it allows the mind to distill complex phenomena into their constituent elements. Far from being a trivial or mechanical task, it is the core function of thought, the capacity that enables us to move beyond surface appearances to reach deeper, more profound insights. It is the absolute power because it underpins all genuine understanding—without this power of separation, thought could not move, could not evolve, could not engage in the dialectical process that constitutes knowledge itself.

The circle that rests closed within itself, holding its moments as substance, represents the immediate and therefore not extraordinary relation. In its simplest form, a circle is a closed, self-contained unity, where each moment exists only in relation to the others within the system. This represents a state of immediate, unreflected unity—everything is connected, but this connection is taken for granted, unexamined, and static. The circle in this sense is not extraordinary because it lacks movement or differentiation; it is simply a fixed whole, containing its parts but without any critical engagement or reflective thought about its structure. It represents a form of knowledge or existence that is immediate and unmediated, where the relations between elements are not yet problematized or made the object of deeper analysis.

But the act of separating what is contingent from its encompassing whole—of distinguishing what is bound and real only in its connection with others, and granting it an independent existence and separate freedom—demonstrates the immense power of the negative. The negative, in this context, is not merely the absence of something but the active force that allows for differentiation, independence, and self-determination. To separate something from its context is to grant it autonomy, to allow it to stand on its own as a distinct entity. This process of separation, of removing something from the whole to understand its individual characteristics, reveals the dynamic power of the negative—because it is through this negation, this separation, that new possibilities for thought and understanding emerge. The negative is the energy that drives the movement of thought, enabling new connections, new insights, and new forms of being. It is not a destructive force, but a creative one, generating the conditions for the development and actualization of knowledge.

This is the energy of thought, the energy of the pure “I.” The “I” here represents the self-conscious subject, the thinking subject that has the capacity to separate, reflect, and transcend the immediate unity of the world. It is the power of the subject to engage critically with the world, to differentiate between what is immediate and what is reflective, between what is contingent and what is essential. The pure “I” is not simply an isolated or abstract self, but the active, self-determining force of thought that engages with the world in order to shape and reshape its understanding. The energy of the “I” is the dynamic, self-reflective power that enables the individual to not only know the world but to transform their own understanding of it through the activity of separation, negation, and reflection.

Death, if we may call this unreality by that name, is the most terrifying event. Death, in this context, represents not just the cessation of life, but the moment of utter disintegration and dissolution, where all that once seemed stable, coherent, and meaningful is shattered. It is the ultimate negation, the event that brings an end to the continuity and identity of existence, and as such, it strikes at the very core of what we consider real and true. To confront death is to confront the possibility of utter destruction, and this confrontation with the unknown, with the total absence of meaning, can be an immensely terrifying experience. Death, in its totality, is a disruption of all that exists, and as such, it represents the most profound form of unreality—something that negates the being of everything that exists.

Holding fast to what is dead requires the greatest strength. To cling to what has already been lost, to what no longer lives or moves, is an act of immense effort and internal fortitude. There is a paradox here: in order to hold on to something that has passed, one must confront the powerlessness of holding onto the dead, to keep a grasp on something that cannot return or be revived. The strength required to maintain this connection to the dead is not physical but spiritual, an attempt to preserve some form of meaning or connection to what has already dissolved. It is a strength that demands resilience in the face of negation, an act of will that resists the overwhelming force of death and decay.

Powerless beauty abhors understanding because it demands of beauty what it cannot achieve. Beauty, when considered in its most ideal or passive form, may resist the imposition of understanding, for understanding requires analysis, categorization, and rationalization—all of which can strip beauty of its immediate, visceral impact. Beauty, in its most pure and powerful sense, defies the reduction to concepts or definitions, for it exists precisely in its ineffability, its resistance to being fully grasped or explained. When beauty is reduced to a mere object of understanding, it loses its potency, its transcendence, becoming something lifeless and diminished. Beauty, when understood merely as an object of intellect, is robbed of its immediacy and its power, which depend on its ability to elude full comprehension.

Yet, it is not life that shies away from death and preserves itself untouched by devastation that constitutes the life of spirit, but rather that which endures death and sustains itself within it. The true essence of spirit does not reside in an avoidance of death or an attempt to preserve itself in a state of untouched purity. Spirit is not defined by a refusal to face destruction, nor by an impulse to avoid the forces of negation and dissolution. Rather, spirit is defined by its ability to endure death, to navigate through the chaos of dismemberment and loss, and to emerge from it stronger and more integrated. The life of spirit is not an unbroken continuity but a dynamic process that includes moments of dissolution and reconstitution. Spirit finds its true power not in escaping death but in confronting it, absorbing its lessons, and integrating its transformative energy into its own growth.

Spirit gains its truth only by finding itself in absolute dismemberment. The journey of spirit toward truth is not a simple progression from one stable state to another. It involves moments of profound rupture, where the unity of the self is torn apart, fragmented, and dismantled. It is only by confronting the dismemberment of its own essence, by experiencing the chaos and loss of coherence, that spirit can fully understand its true nature. Truth for spirit is not found in the preservation of a static, unbroken unity, but in the capacity to endure and emerge from the disintegration of that unity. Spirit’s truth is forged in the crucible of destruction, where it learns to integrate its contradictions and rebuild itself anew. The life of spirit is not a linear ascent but a dynamic process of becoming that includes both creation and destruction, both unity and dismemberment.

Spirit is not this power as something positive that turns away from the negative—such as when we simply dismiss something as “nothing” or “false” and move on to something else, as if the negative can be easily brushed aside. In this approach, the negative is treated as an obstacle or a void, something to be ignored or quickly overcome in order to reach the positive or the true. This attitude sees the negative as an external force to be avoided, an inconvenient element to be discarded in the pursuit of what is considered real or meaningful. When we say something is “nothing” or “false,” we typically treat it as irrelevant, a mere interruption in the process of constructing truth or meaning.

However, this is not the true nature of spirit. Spirit is not merely a power that bypasses the negative or ignores its presence. Instead, spirit is this power precisely by confronting the negative face-to-face and dwelling with it. To dwell with the negative is not to avoid or dismiss it, but to engage with it directly, to fully acknowledge its existence and embrace its transformative potential. The negative, in this sense, is not merely a destructive force or a mere absence, but a critical moment in the process of becoming, an essential part of the dialectical movement that leads to self-realization and growth. Spirit does not flee from contradiction, challenge, or destruction; it moves through these moments, reflecting on them, integrating them, and allowing them to shape its own development.

This dwelling with the negative is the magical force that turns the negative into being. The negative, once confronted and internalized, ceases to be simply an obstacle or a void. It becomes a dynamic force in its own right, one that is not merely opposed to being but becomes part of the movement that brings being into full realization. Through this process of dwelling with the negative, spirit transforms it, turning it from an external threat into an integral part of its own self-expression. The negative becomes a necessary moment in the unfolding of truth, a force that drives spirit toward greater self-consciousness and deeper understanding. It is through the reconciliation of the negative that spirit achieves its full potency, for the negative is not something to be avoided, but something to be incorporated into the broader totality of being.

In this way, spirit’s power lies in its ability to engage with the negative, to turn its contradictions and struggles into sources of strength and growth. This is the true nature of spirit: not a force that simply transcends the negative, but one that is made whole by embracing and integrating it. By dwelling with the negative, spirit becomes more than just a passive force—it becomes a dynamic, self-realizing power that continuously shapes and reshapes itself in response to the challenges it faces.

This force is the same as what was earlier called the subject, which, by granting determinations existence within its own element, sublates abstract or merely immediate immediacy. The subject, in its essential nature, is not a passive observer of the world but an active, self-determining force that bestows meaning and reality upon the world by bringing determinations into existence within its own sphere. It is the subject that gives life and significance to concepts and objects, shaping them within its own self-conscious realm. By doing so, it moves beyond mere immediacy—the raw, unreflected experience of the world—by transforming this immediacy into something more complex and mediated. Immediacy, in this sense, refers to an initial, unexamined state of being, one that is taken at face value and not yet subjected to the depth of reflection and self-awareness. The subject does not accept this raw immediacy but actively sublates it, lifting it beyond its mere surface and integrating it into a more profound and self-conscious understanding.

In this act of sublation, the subject transcends the limitations of abstract immediacy—those immediate moments of unreflected existence—and in doing so, it becomes the true substance. Substance, here, is not a passive or inert being but a dynamic force, one that is capable of self-reflection, self-determination, and self-creation. It is the subject that transforms itself and the world by reflecting upon and integrating its various determinations into a unified, coherent system. Through this process, it is no longer merely being or immediacy in its raw form, but becomes a self-determining substance that is not separate from the mediation it requires to understand itself.

Being or immediacy, in its highest form, does not reside outside of the subject as something separate or external; rather, it is woven into the very fabric of the subject itself. This true substance does not require external mediation—external influences or passive reflections—because it becomes its own mediator. It is itself the process of mediation, the self-reflective movement that integrates contradiction, difference, and particularity into a higher unity. The subject, in this sense, becomes the true substance because it no longer merely exists as a static or immediate being, but actively shapes and transforms its own reality. It does not remain confined to an abstract immediacy; instead, it is the living, dynamic force that makes reality meaningful by actively mediating and reflecting upon its own existence.

Thus, the subject becomes both the being and the process of being. It is the immediate, raw existence that has been elevated and transformed through its own mediation, becoming not only the substance of reality but also the active force that makes that reality intelligible and self-conscious. In this way, the subject is both the foundation and the movement of existence itself, bringing immediacy into reflection and uniting the concrete with the abstract, the immediate with the mediated, in a harmonious, self-creating whole.

The elevation of what is represented into the possession of pure self-consciousness—this rise to universality—is only one side and not yet the completed process of cultivation. The journey toward self-consciousness, wherein the individual moves from immediate, particular representations to a more universal and reflective understanding, is an essential part of the process. However, this elevation represents just one phase in the broader developmental arc. While self-consciousness may rise to universality, this process alone does not mark the completion of the cultivation of spirit. The full realization of universality requires more than simply integrating various representations into the self-conscious mind; it necessitates a deeper, more comprehensive cultivation, one that involves the ongoing transformation and reflection of consciousness over time. This process of cultivation involves not only achieving universal knowledge but actively engaging with and embodying that universality in a manner that shapes the individual’s entire way of being.

The method of study in ancient times differs from that of the modern era in that the former involved the genuine development of natural consciousness. In ancient philosophy, study was not confined to abstract reasoning or speculative theorizing detached from lived experience. Instead, ancient study was a dynamic, lived process that engaged deeply with the natural world and human experience. The goal was not merely to theorize about knowledge but to develop and refine the very consciousness that engaged with the world. Ancient thinkers did not start with a system of concepts handed down from others; they engaged with the world directly, testing themselves and their understanding against the phenomena they encountered. Their study was an active process of becoming, where the individual’s consciousness grew and evolved in response to their experiences, their reflections, and their engagement with the world.

By testing itself in every aspect of its existence and philosophizing about all encountered phenomena, ancient study produced a thoroughly realized universality. The ancient approach to knowledge was not about abstract contemplation alone but about living in the world, experiencing it fully, and integrating those experiences into a broader, more universal understanding. In this way, ancient study sought to embody universality, making it a lived reality rather than a mere intellectual exercise. Through this process of engagement, individuals did not simply acquire knowledge in a detached, passive manner; they developed a consciousness capable of recognizing the unity and interconnectedness of all things. Their study was a holistic endeavor, involving not only the mind but also the body, the senses, and the emotions. This allowed them to realize a deeper and more thorough form of universality, one that was not confined to the realm of ideas but was deeply rooted in the lived experience of being in the world.

In contrast, in modern times, the individual finds the abstract form already prepared. Unlike in ancient times, when the universal had to be discovered and cultivated through engagement with the concrete world and its multiplicities, today the abstract forms of knowledge are already established and readily available. These forms have been worked out and systematized through the centuries, offering individuals a ready-made framework of concepts, theories, and intellectual structures. The task, therefore, is not to create or uncover the universal from scratch, but rather to understand and internalize these existing abstractions. The individual’s challenge now lies in grasping and appropriating these pre-formed concepts, yet often this effort remains an inward drive, isolated from the concrete, lived experience that initially gave rise to these forms. The abstract is thus often approached as something separate, something already established outside the individual, rather than something that emerges organically from the rich, diverse particularities of experience.

The effort to grasp and appropriate the universal is therefore more an inward drive and an isolated production of the universal than the universal arising out of the concrete and the multiplicity of existence. In modern times, individuals often approach knowledge as something to be understood and internalized in isolation from the dynamic, evolving world around them. The universal is often treated as something abstract and fixed, which must be absorbed into the individual’s consciousness. The process of knowledge acquisition today tends to involve the inward assimilation of these external abstractions, without necessarily requiring the kind of deep engagement with the concrete world that characterized earlier forms of study. The universal, in this context, seems already determined and self-contained, and the task is more about fitting the individual’s consciousness into these ready-made forms.

Hence, today the task is not so much to purify the individual from an immediate sensory mode and transform it into a conceptual and thinking substance, but rather the opposite: to actualize and spiritualize the universal by dissolving fixed, determinate thoughts. In earlier stages of development, the individual had to move from immediate sensory perception to conceptual thinking, transforming raw experience into reflective understanding. Today, however, the reverse process is required. The individual must take these abstract, fixed concepts—often shaped by previous generations—and dissolve their rigid, determinate nature in order to actualize and spiritualize the universal contained within them. This process involves breaking free from the constraints of static, predefined concepts and allowing the universal to take on new forms, to be reanimated and deeply internalized. The goal is not to merely accept these abstract concepts as final and unchanging, but to engage with them in such a way that they become dynamic and alive, infused with the vitality of thought and reflection, able to evolve and resonate with the concrete reality of contemporary experience.

However, it is far more difficult to bring fixed thoughts into fluidity than to transform sensory existence. The transformation of sensory existence, though not an easy task, involves moving from an immediate and unreflective engagement with the world toward a more conceptual understanding. Sensory experience is raw, immediate, and often chaotic, but it is in its nature mutable and susceptible to change through thought. By reflecting upon and processing sensory data, the individual can move from the passive reception of external stimuli to the active creation of concepts and ideas. In this sense, the sensory world is more accessible to transformation because it lacks the self-contained, self-sustaining structure that defines fixed, determinate thoughts.

The reason, as stated earlier, is that these determinations—fixed, abstract thoughts—have the “I”—the power of the negative or pure actuality—as their substance and as the element of their existence. Fixed thoughts are not simply external facts or passive content to be assimilated; they are the product of the self-conscious, self-determining “I,” which actively shapes and organizes them. The “I,” or pure self-consciousness, imbues these thoughts with their substance, and it is through the activity of the “I” that they gain their meaning and form. These determinations are not static or inert but are shaped by the reflective activity of the self, which brings them into existence as conscious, intentional acts. Because they are so closely tied to the self and its reflective power, these thoughts have a kind of inner stability and coherence. This makes them far more difficult to alter or rework than the raw immediacy of sensory experience, which is less defined by internal self-conscious activity.

In contrast, sensory determinations have only impotent abstract immediacy or being as such. Sensory experience, while rich and dynamic, lacks the internal coherence and self-consciousness that define thought. Sensory data is initially immediate and undifferentiated—raw being, without the shaping power of thought to organize or give it meaning. It is only through the activity of the “I” that sensory experience is transformed into something comprehensible, conceptual, and reflective. Thus, while sensory experience can be reshaped through thought, the immediate rawness of being lacks the inherent complexity and resistance to change that abstract concepts possess. In this way, sensory determinations are more malleable because they lack the same substantive foundation in self-consciousness that makes fixed thoughts resistant to transformation.

Thoughts become fluid when pure thinking—this inner immediacy—recognizes itself as a moment, or when the pure certainty of itself abstracts from itself. Pure thinking, in its most immediate form, is a kind of direct self-awareness, where thought simply exists in its present state without yet reflecting on its own process or development. This inner immediacy is the unexamined certainty of thought, where the “I” knows itself as a self-evident, immediate fact. However, for thoughts to move beyond mere immediacy and become fluid, this inner certainty must recognize itself as just one moment in a larger process. It must become aware that its initial, self-contained state is only a transient phase—an incomplete step in the unfolding of thought. To move beyond its fixity, pure thinking must abstract from itself, stepping back from the immediacy of its own existence and acknowledging its own process of becoming. This is not a rejection of its own nature, but a recognition that it is not static; it is an active, unfolding force that is always in motion and development.

This does not mean setting itself aside or dismissing itself, but rather relinquishing the fixedness of its self-establishment. The “I,” in its initial state, has a certain fixity or immobility—it is a self-established, self-sufficient presence that sees itself as distinct and complete. To make thought fluid, the “I” must loosen this fixity, allowing its own self-certainty to become part of a larger, more dynamic process. This process involves recognizing that the self is not a finished, immutable entity but a moment in a larger, unfolding dialectic. The “I” must give up the illusion of being a static, independent point of certainty, and instead, it must allow itself to be part of a larger movement of thought, which involves the negation of its own immediacy.

Whether it is the fixity of the pure concrete—the “I” itself, as the unreflective, undifferentiated self—or the fixity of differentiated elements, when placed into the elements of pure thought, they must partake in the absoluteness of the “I.” The pure “I” represents the self-conscious subject, the center of thought, but it cannot remain locked in its immediate self-awareness or in its abstract, undifferentiated state. It must engage with and transform the fixed, particular elements of experience and thought. These elements—whether they are the raw, undifferentiated experience of the self or the more differentiated, particular ideas and concepts—must be integrated into the broader, fluid movement of pure thought. In this process, they become part of the absoluteness of the “I,” meaning they are not separate or static but are united within the self-reflective, self-determining movement of consciousness. Through this integration, the “I” transcends its initial fixity, embracing a more fluid, dynamic understanding of itself and the world.

Through this movement, pure thoughts become concepts and are only then what they truly are: self-movements, circles, and spiritual essences that constitute their substance. In the initial, unreflected stage, thoughts are mere abstractions, existing as isolated, static forms of knowledge without internal movement or development. These early stages of thought are not yet fully realized—they are still bound by the immediate self-certainty of the “I” and have not yet entered the dialectical process that gives them their true depth. However, as thought engages with itself, as it abstracts from its immediate form and enters into a process of self-reflection, these raw thoughts evolve into concepts. Concepts are not static or isolated; they are dynamic structures that embody the living, self-moving nature of thought. They are not merely intellectual representations; they are expressions of spirit, of self-consciousness, and they function as moments within a larger dialectical movement.

Only through this transformation, this movement from pure thoughts to concepts, do they truly become what they are meant to be: self-movements. Concepts are not just passive ideas or fixed determinations; they are dynamic, living forces that constantly evolve and interact within the larger system of thought. They are circles, in the sense that they return upon themselves, moving from one determination to the next, constantly reflecting and negating in a dialectical manner. Each concept is both a product of thought and a process that drives thought forward, integrating new elements and transforming the previous ones. The circle here represents the cyclical nature of thought, where each stage is both the end and the beginning, where each moment of understanding folds into the next in a continuous movement of self-realization.

Concepts are also spiritual essences, as they embody the very nature of self-consciousness and the life of spirit. They are not abstract intellectual tools; they are expressions of the deeper, spiritual essence of thought itself. The true substance of a concept is not its external form or its surface meaning, but the living, self-determining movement of thought that it represents. As such, concepts are the substance of knowledge, as they constitute the very being of thought. They are not external or detached from the world, but are the essence of thought as it unfolds and integrates itself into a larger, self-aware whole.

In this way, the movement from pure thoughts to concepts is not simply an intellectual process but a transformation that reveals the true nature of thought itself. It is through this movement that thought becomes self-conscious, dynamic, and alive—embodying the very essence of spirit as it moves, reflects, and evolves. Only in becoming concepts do pure thoughts fulfill their potential, becoming part of the living, self-moving, and ever-evolving process of thought.

This movement of pure essences constitutes the very nature of scientificity as such. Scientificity, in its true form, is not merely the accumulation of facts or ideas, but the dynamic unfolding of thought through a self-determined process. The movement of pure essences—the self-reflective and dialectical process of thought—is the fundamental essence of what it means to be scientific. It is not just about observing or cataloging knowledge; it is about the internal development of knowledge itself, where each concept grows and unfolds through its relation to others. In science, this movement is not arbitrary but follows an inner necessity, a logic that drives the content toward ever greater complexity and self-understanding. The process of scientific thinking is rooted in the interconnectedness of concepts, where each idea both arises from and contributes to a larger organic whole.

When viewed as the interconnectedness of its content, it is the necessity and expansion of that content into an organic whole. Science is not merely a collection of isolated ideas but a unified system where each concept is part of a larger network, a system of thought that is greater than the sum of its parts. The expansion of knowledge is not a haphazard gathering of facts but a necessary, organic process in which each part is connected to the others, forming a coherent and complete system. The interconnectedness of scientific content reveals its inner necessity, where every step of the development is required and leads naturally to the next. This organic growth of knowledge reflects the living, dynamic nature of science as it unfolds and evolves.

The path by which the concept of knowledge is attained likewise becomes a necessary and complete development. Knowledge, as a concept, is not something that can be arrived at randomly or through piecemeal accumulation. The development of knowledge follows a necessary path, a process of conceptual maturation in which the individual concepts build upon and transform each other. This path is not contingent or accidental, but rather the unfolding of knowledge in its most authentic and complete form. Each stage in the development of knowledge is necessary and serves a vital role in the overall progression of thought.

In this way, this preparation ceases to be a contingent philosophizing that attaches itself to various objects, relations, and thoughts of imperfect consciousness as chance might dictate. The process of preparation for scientific knowledge is no longer a scattered, disorganized form of thinking, one that clings to disparate ideas and thoughts in an arbitrary manner. It is no longer driven by the contingent whims of chance or limited by the fragmented, imperfect consciousness that seeks only to relate to isolated objects or relations. Instead, the preparation for knowledge becomes a deliberate, systematic process that moves beyond the superficial engagement with individual, disconnected objects.

It also abandons the attempt to ground the true through the back-and-forth of reasoning, deduction, or inference from fixed ideas. The search for truth through mere reasoning, deduction, or inference from fixed, pre-established ideas no longer suffices. These methods, while useful in some contexts, cannot lead to the genuine, organic development of knowledge. The process of scientific thought is not about endlessly cycling through established truths or assuming that truth can be derived from static, unchanging principles. Instead, it is about engaging with the dynamic process of thought itself, where truth is not an external, fixed entity to be discovered, but a living, evolving realization that emerges through the unfolding of concepts.

Instead, this path, through the movement of the concept, comprehends the entirety of consciousness’s worldly nature in its necessity. The process of developing the concept is not merely an abstract intellectual exercise, but a dynamic movement that unfolds in such a way that it grasps the full scope of consciousness’s engagement with the world. As the concept evolves, it does not remain detached or isolated from the world but comprehends it in its totality—recognizing both the external reality and the internal processes of consciousness as interconnected moments within a larger whole. The concept is not simply an isolated idea, but an active force that incorporates and integrates all aspects of worldly experience. It is through the movement of the concept that the necessity of the world’s structure is revealed: not as a random or chaotic existence, but as a rational, necessary system of relations that the concept itself brings to light.

This comprehension is not merely about understanding individual, isolated aspects of the world, but about grasping the interconnectedness and interdependence of all aspects of existence. The movement of the concept reveals how each moment of consciousness’s experience is necessary for the development of thought, and how every aspect of the world plays a role in the unfolding of consciousness’s self-realization. Through the dialectical movement of the concept, the entirety of worldly experience is seen as part of a larger, unified process, where each stage of development is necessary and integral to the whole.

In this way, the concept becomes the means by which consciousness moves beyond its immediate, fragmented experience of the world and comprehends the necessity that underlies the structure of existence itself. The world, far from being a collection of disparate, unrelated elements, is understood as a coherent system in which each moment of consciousness’s worldly nature is both an expression of and a contribution to the larger process of self-realization. The concept, therefore, does not simply reflect the world but actively brings it into a unified, self-conscious understanding, revealing the necessity and interconnectedness that make up the totality of existence.

Such a presentation constitutes the first part of science because the existence of spirit, as the first, is nothing other than the immediate or the beginning. The initial stage of spirit’s existence, in its purest form, is an immediate one, unmediated and undifferentiated. It is the starting point, the raw moment of being that has not yet undergone reflection or development. In this first stage, spirit exists simply as it is, in its most elemental, immediate form. This beginning is not the end, nor is it the completion of the process; it is merely the entry into the dialectical movement of thought. The beginning represents the first spark, the initial moment of consciousness before it begins to move, reflect, and develop into higher forms of self-consciousness. However, this initial moment is not yet a return into itself; it is still in its raw immediacy, not yet reflecting upon or organizing itself as a fully realized subject.

However, the beginning is not yet its return into itself. For the spirit to truly grasp its own essence and understand its own nature, it must move beyond this immediate state and engage in the process of self-reflection and self-development. The return into itself involves spirit moving through a dialectical process, where it transcends its immediate existence and integrates its moments into a more complete, self-conscious whole. The first stage, as immediate as it is, represents only the starting point of this process, not its fulfillment. It is through this progression, this journey toward self-awareness, that spirit begins to realize itself, moving from immediate being into a reflective, self-determined existence.

The element of immediate existence is therefore determinateness, which distinguishes this part of science from the others. The immediate is characterized by its determinate nature—by being specific and defined in its initial, raw form. It is a state of being that is unreflected, unmediated, and in this sense, fixed and determinate. The determinateness of this stage is crucial because it marks the initial boundary of spirit’s existence, the point from which all further development begins. The determinateness here is not yet shaped by reflective thought, but it serves as the foundation upon which the subsequent stages of science will build. Each step that follows will involve moving beyond this determinateness, integrating it into a larger, more complex system of thought. The first part of science is defined by this immediacy and determinateness, which will later evolve into the self-conscious, dynamic movement of spirit.

The identification of this distinction leads to the discussion of certain fixed ideas that tend to arise in this context. Once we recognize the fundamental difference between the immediate, undifferentiated beginning and the more reflective, developed forms of thought, it becomes necessary to address the fixed ideas that often accompany this initial stage of understanding. These fixed ideas are the conceptual remnants or preconceptions that arise when consciousness engages with the world without fully reflecting on or developing the concepts it employs. These ideas can be deeply ingrained and may seem self-evident or absolute, yet they are often limited, incomplete, or misleading in their simplicity. In the context of science, particularly in its early stages, such fixed ideas can become obstacles to further development, as they are based on an uncritical acceptance of the immediate and undifferentiated aspects of experience.

Fixed ideas, in this context, refer to those concepts that resist development or change, often because they are taken as given or foundational, without being examined in their full complexity. These ideas tend to arise from a superficial or immediate engagement with reality, where the individual assumes that what is immediately present or perceived is the complete or final truth. Such ideas are often based on the immediate experience of the world, and while they may have some truth to them, they are incomplete and can lead to a distorted or static understanding of reality. These fixed ideas can become entrenched in our thinking, shaping how we understand and relate to the world, but they prevent the development of more nuanced, reflective, and comprehensive knowledge.

In science, the recognition of such fixed ideas is crucial because it allows for the possibility of transcending them. The process of scientific inquiry involves not only identifying these ideas but also critically examining them, understanding their limitations, and moving beyond them. The initial stage of science—the stage of immediacy and determinateness—sets the foundation, but it is precisely through the recognition of these fixed ideas that science can begin its more rigorous, dynamic development. By addressing these fixed concepts and moving beyond them, science begins to develop the more sophisticated and self-reflective thought that constitutes its true progression.

The immediate existence of spirit—consciousness—has two moments: knowledge and the objectivity that is negative to this knowledge. Consciousness, in its most immediate form, is not a simple, undifferentiated state of being, but consists of two intertwined moments: the first is knowledge, which is the active, self-reflective aspect of consciousness, and the second is objectivity, the external reality that is in some sense opposed to or negated by this knowledge. Knowledge, in this case, refers to the way in which consciousness actively engages with and understands the world, making sense of experience through thought, perception, and reflection. However, this knowledge is never a self-contained or isolated process. It is always confronted by objectivity—the external world, the objects, and the realities that consciousness perceives. These objects are not simply passive, but stand in opposition to the knowledge that consciousness forms about them. They are what gives consciousness something to reflect upon and engage with, providing the necessary tension that drives the process of self-consciousness.

As spirit develops within this element and unfolds its moments, these moments take on this opposition and appear as forms of consciousness. As spirit progresses, this initial opposition between knowledge and objectivity becomes more complex and refined. The unfolding of consciousness is not a linear process but one that involves the continual reconciliation and transformation of opposites. These moments—the act of knowing and the objectivity that negates this knowing—are not static or fixed; they evolve and manifest as different forms of consciousness. As spirit moves through these stages, each new form of consciousness represents a more developed way of engaging with and understanding the world, where the tension between knowledge and objectivity is reworked, transcended, and integrated into a more complex self-consciousness. The opposition that was initially present as a simple dichotomy between subject and object becomes the dynamic engine of the development of spirit, driving it toward deeper and more integrated forms of understanding.

Thus, the immediate existence of spirit, which begins with the basic opposition between knowledge and objectivity, gradually evolves into a more comprehensive and dialectical form of consciousness, where these moments no longer stand as isolated opposites but are integrated into the unfolding totality of spirit’s self-realization. The forms of consciousness that emerge at each stage reflect the ongoing movement of spirit as it navigates and resolves the tensions between its internal knowledge and the external objectivity it perceives.

The science of this path is the science of the experience that consciousness undergoes. This path of scientific inquiry is not concerned with abstract, external truths that exist independently of the individual subject. Rather, it is the study of the lived experience of consciousness itself—the unfolding of its awareness and the movement through which it engages with the world. The essence of this scientific journey lies in understanding how consciousness experiences the world and how this experience evolves over time. It is through the analysis of this experience, the examination of consciousness as it moves through different stages of awareness, that we come to know the true nature of spirit and reality. The science of this path is thus the science of subjective experience, which is inextricably tied to the development of consciousness itself.

Substance is observed as it is and as its movement becomes the object of consciousness. The substance in question is not a static, external reality that consciousness passively receives but is a dynamic, self-unfolding process that becomes the object of consciousness through its own movement. As spirit develops and manifests in the world, consciousness observes this development, reflecting on how substance changes and evolves. In this sense, substance is not something independent of consciousness but is something that becomes known only through the movement of consciousness. It is as consciousness interacts with substance, as it perceives and reflects upon its unfolding, that substance takes on meaning and becomes intelligible to the subject.

Consciousness knows and comprehends only what is within its experience, for what is within its experience is solely the spiritual substance, presented as the object of its self. The realm of knowledge is confined to what consciousness itself can experience. Consciousness does not directly know an external, objective reality in its raw form, but only the way that reality is presented to it through experience. What consciousness knows is not merely an abstract or detached world, but a world that is inherently tied to its own self-consciousness. The object of knowledge is always a presentation of spiritual substance—the unfolding of spirit in the world—that is shaped by the way consciousness reflects upon it. This means that the object of consciousness is never an external, independent thing but is always already shaped by the subject’s own self-awareness. The experience of consciousness is not a passive reception of the world but an active engagement with it, wherein the world is known and comprehended only insofar as it is presented to the subject through its own self-conscious reflection.

Spirit becomes an object because it is this movement: the process of becoming an other—i.e., the object of itself—and sublating this otherness. Spirit, in its development, does not remain static or self-contained but undergoes a dynamic process of transformation. It becomes an object not in the sense of being something external or separate, but as part of its own self-realization. Spirit’s movement is defined by its ability to become “other” to itself—to distance itself from its initial immediacy, to experience itself in a different form, and to confront this difference or alienation. Through this process, spirit becomes its own object, not as something fixed or separate, but as a moment in its continuous development. The movement of spirit is this dialectical process, where it recognizes itself as both subject and object, constantly shifting and transforming through its own self-reflection and self-negation. This is the core of spirit’s dynamic existence—it is in the movement between subjectivity and objectivity, between self-consciousness and externalization, that it achieves its full realization.

This process of experience is precisely this movement, in which the immediate or unexperienced—the abstract, whether it be sensory being or a merely conceived simplicity—alienates itself and then returns to itself from this alienation. The movement of spirit begins with the immediate, unreflected experience of the world. At first, this experience is raw and undifferentiated, whether it is sensory perception of objects or a simplistic, abstract conception of the world. In its immediacy, this experience is abstract because it has not yet undergone reflection or synthesis. However, through the dialectical process, this immediate experience becomes alienated from itself. It is no longer merely a passive or immediate experience but is recognized as something incomplete or abstract—something that needs to be transcended. This alienation is a necessary part of the process, as it creates the tension and contradiction that drives the movement of thought.

Then, spirit returns to itself from this alienation. Through reflection and mediation, it reconciles the initial alienation and returns to a higher understanding of itself. This return is not a simple reversion to its starting point but a transformation, where spirit reintegrates and transcends the alienated experience. In this return, it is now first presented in its actuality and truth, as it has passed through the process of becoming and is now comprehended in its full reality. The experience is no longer abstract or alien but is fully realized in its true nature, having been transformed through the movement of thought and self-consciousness.

And, in this return, it also becomes the possession of consciousness. The experience, once alienated or external, is now internalized and integrated into consciousness. It is no longer something passive or external that consciousness simply encounters but something that consciousness has actively shaped, understood, and made its own. This return to self is the moment when spirit fully possesses its truth, not as an abstract or detached object, but as an integral part of its own self-conscious process. Through this dialectical movement, spirit achieves a deeper, more realized understanding of itself, where the object of consciousness becomes fully integrated into the self, no longer a separate or external entity but a part of the totality of consciousness.

The disparity that exists in consciousness between the “I” and the substance, which is its object, constitutes their difference, the negative in general. The “I”—the self-conscious subject—and substance—its object or the world of external reality—are in a relationship of fundamental opposition. This opposition is not merely an external distinction but an intrinsic part of the nature of consciousness. The “I” stands apart from substance, recognizing it as something other than itself, and this difference is what defines the structure of consciousness. The “I” is aware of itself as distinct from the world, and the world, as substance, stands as the negation or the “other” to the self. This gap, this opposition, is what constitutes the negative, the driving force in consciousness that propels it forward in its development.

This negative can be regarded as the deficiency of both, but it is also their soul or the force that moves them. The negative, as the tension between the “I” and substance, can be seen as a deficiency because it points to something lacking or incomplete in both the subject and the object. The “I” is not fully itself without the substance to define it, and substance is not fully realized without being reflected in the “I.” This lack creates a gap, a contradiction, that demands resolution. However, rather than merely being a deficiency, this negative also functions as the soul of both the “I” and substance. It is the driving force that propels both forward, the energy that moves consciousness to become more fully aware of itself and its object. The negative is not a passive void but an active, dynamic force that is central to the movement and development of spirit. It is this very negativity that enables change, transformation, and the unfolding of self-consciousness.

For this reason, some of the ancients understood the void as the moving principle, recognizing the negative as the driving force, though not yet as the self. The concept of the void, particularly in ancient philosophy, was often associated with the idea of movement and change. In the absence of form or substance, the void was seen as the principle that allowed for motion, transformation, and the generation of new possibilities. While the ancients recognized the negative force as a driving principle—something that moved and shaped reality—they did not yet conceive of this negative as self-conscious or as the “self” in its fullest sense. They understood the void or the negative as a force that instigated movement, but not as the self-reflective, self-determining force that it would later be understood to be in more developed philosophical systems. It was a driving force, but not yet fully realized in its identity as the self-conscious subject that would come to be central in modern philosophy.

When this negative initially appears as the disparity of the “I” with its object, it is equally the disparity of the substance with itself. The negative, as the fundamental opposition between the self and its object, is not simply an external difference but a reflection of a deeper internal division. At first glance, this negative appears as a separation between the “I”—the self-conscious subject—and the substance—the external world or the object of knowledge. However, this separation is not confined to the relationship between subject and object alone. It is also the internal division of the substance itself, which, in its immediate, undifferentiated state, is incomplete and lacking. The object, in its externality, is not fully realized or integrated into the self-consciousness of the “I.” Similarly, substance, in its raw, unreflected state, is divided against itself, not yet fully conscious or self-aware. This disparity between the “I” and its object is mirrored in the substance’s own lack of unity with itself, revealing the negative as a force that permeates both the subject and the object, urging them toward reconciliation and synthesis.

What seems to occur outside of it, as an activity directed against it, is in fact its own activity, and it thereby reveals itself to be essentially subject. At first, the negative may seem to be something external, something that confronts and challenges the “I” or substance from the outside. It may appear as an external force that opposes or resists the self, creating tension and conflict. However, as the dialectical process unfolds, it becomes clear that this opposition is not truly external. The activity that seems to be directed against the “I” or substance is in fact its own internal movement. The negative is not something imposed from outside, but rather something that emerges from within the very nature of the subject and object themselves. It is through this internal activity of negation, reflection, and self-transformation that both the “I” and substance come to realize their true nature as subjects. This realization of the negative as an internal force reveals the “I” and substance to be essentially subject—self-determining, self-reflective, and dynamic. Both the “I” and substance are not passive entities, but active forces in their own development.

When it has fully demonstrated this, spirit has aligned its existence with its essence; it becomes its own object as it truly is, and the abstract element of immediacy, along with the separation of knowledge and truth, is overcome. Once spirit has fully realized this internal movement of negation and synthesis, it aligns its existence with its essence. Spirit no longer remains divided between the immediate, raw experience of existence and the deeper, reflective truth of self-consciousness. It becomes whole, integrated, and unified. In this moment, spirit sees itself as its own object, no longer externalizing itself or confronting itself as something alien. The “I” and the object are reconciled, and the separation between knowledge and truth—the abstract division that has marked the earlier stages of consciousness—is overcome. The immediacy of raw experience, which had previously existed as a disconnected, unreflective moment, is transcended as spirit fully grasps itself as both subject and object, knowledge and truth. This reconciliation signifies the overcoming of the fragmentation that defined earlier stages of development, and spirit, now unified, realizes its true self in its complete essence.

Being is now absolutely mediated; it is substantial content that is equally the immediate possession of the “I,” self-like or conceptual. At this stage in the development of spirit, being is no longer an immediate, undifferentiated existence. It has been fully mediated through the reflective movement of thought, and as a result, it has become substantial content that is now inseparable from the “I.” This content is not external to the self but is something that the “I” possesses in its entirety. The distinction between the self and the world has been dissolved; being is no longer something separate and alien to consciousness, but is now fully integrated into the self-consciousness of the “I.” This being is now self-like or conceptual, meaning that it is understood and grasped not merely as an external object but as something that reflects the nature of the self—something that is both internal and external, subjective and objective. This represents the culmination of the dialectical journey, where being is no longer an external, alien force but a concept fully realized within the consciousness of spirit.

With this, the Phenomenology of Spirit concludes. The journey of spirit through its various stages of development, from immediate consciousness to the realization of self-consciousness and knowledge, comes to its close. Spirit has traversed the path of experience, engaging with the external world, confronting its contradictions, and evolving through various forms of consciousness. Now, spirit has achieved its full self-realization, where the self and the world are unified. The development of spirit has brought it to the point where it comprehends the world not as something external, but as an expression of its own essence, fully mediated through knowledge. This marks the end of the Phenomenology of Spirit, the process of spirit’s journey toward self-awareness, and the beginning of a new phase, where knowledge becomes the primary element in which spirit continues to unfold.

What spirit has prepared for itself in this process is the element of knowledge. Through the dialectical movement, spirit has arrived at knowledge as the central element of its existence. Knowledge is not merely an intellectual activity or a passive reception of facts; it is the very medium in which spirit lives and realizes itself. Within this element of knowledge, the moments of spirit unfold in their fullness, no longer fragmented or divided, but integrated into a unified process of understanding. These moments, or stages of development, are not isolated from one another but are part of a continuous, dynamic unfolding of spirit. In this state, spirit is able to know itself as itself, and its understanding is no longer limited to external objects, but encompasses the totality of its own essence.

Within this element, the moments of spirit unfold in the form of simplicity, knowing their object as themselves. The distinctions that once existed between subject and object, between the self and the world, have been overcome. Now, spirit knows its object as a part of itself; the object is not alien but is understood as an expression of the self. This simplicity is not an emptiness but a rich, integrated understanding where the complexity of the world and the self are reconciled. Knowledge, in this form, is not divided or fragmented but is a unified process in which spirit understands itself in its totality.

They no longer fall into the opposition of being and knowing but remain within the unity of knowledge. In this final stage, the dualism between being and knowing—between the external world and the internal self—is no longer operative. Spirit no longer experiences this opposition as a contradiction to be resolved but recognizes that being and knowing are united within the totality of knowledge. The process of knowing is no longer a means to an end, nor is it the struggle to overcome the gap between subject and object. Instead, knowing becomes the very form of being, where both subject and object are understood as moments within the unity of knowledge.

They are the true in the form of the true, and their distinctions are merely distinctions of content. The moments of spirit, in their fully realized form, are the true, not as abstract concepts or isolated truths, but as the actualization of truth itself. These moments are not opposed to each other or to the whole; rather, they are distinct elements of a unified, organic whole. Their distinctions are not contradictions or separations but are differences in content that enrich the totality of knowledge. The true is not something external or abstract, but is immanent within the process of knowledge, fully realized in the unity of spirit’s self-consciousness.

Their movement, which organizes itself into a whole within this element, constitutes logic or speculative philosophy. The unfolding of spirit within the element of knowledge does not remain a fragmented or disjointed process. Rather, it organizes itself into a coherent, integrated system, where the moments of spirit—each distinct yet interconnected—come together to form a unified whole. This movement of thought, which is both dynamic and self-sustaining, represents the essence of logic or speculative philosophy. Logic, in this context, is not merely a set of formal rules or abstract reasoning, but the living process through which thought unfolds and develops in a dialectical manner. It is the movement of spirit as it reflects upon itself, shaping and reshaping its concepts and understanding through internal reflection and self-determination.

Speculative philosophy, similarly, is not concerned with static truths or predefined concepts, but with the active process of becoming, where each concept is both a product of thought and a moment that drives thought forward. It is speculative in the sense that it engages with the totality of being, understanding reality not as a collection of isolated parts but as a system in constant motion, where each element is interconnected and interdependent. In speculative philosophy, there is no final, static truth; rather, truth emerges through the continuous dialectical process, where every stage of understanding leads to the next, and the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.

Thus, the movement of spirit within the element of knowledge is not a simple accumulation of facts or concepts, but a living, dynamic process that leads to the construction of a logical, speculative system. In this system, the true nature of reality is revealed, not through external observation or passive reception, but through the active, self-reflective process of thought. Logic or speculative philosophy, therefore, is the methodology by which spirit organizes its own self-consciousness and understands the world in its totality, integrating each moment of thought into a larger, more complex whole.

Since the system of the experience of spirit encompasses only the appearance of spirit, the progression from it to the science of the true—where the true exists in the form of the true—may seem purely negative. The journey from the realm of appearance, which represents the initial stages of spirit’s self-realization, to the science of the true, where truth is fully realized and comprehended in its own form, can be perceived as a process of negation. At first glance, it may appear that the initial stages of spirit’s experience—marked by appearances, contradictions, and partial truths—are merely negative in nature, since they lead toward a higher realization. The negative here does not simply refer to the absence of something, but to the transition from an incomplete or inadequate state to a more complete and self-conscious understanding. This movement from appearance to the fully realized truth involves the negation of what is not yet true, and it is often seen as a necessary, though difficult, step.

One might wish to bypass the negative, understood as the false, and demand to be led directly to the truth. It is a common inclination to desire an immediate access to the truth, bypassing the negative, the false, or the incomplete. If we seek knowledge and wisdom, why engage with the false at all? Why not begin directly with the truth, leaving behind all that is unclear, partial, or mistaken? The false, understood in this way, is seen as something to be avoided or transcended as quickly as possible, and the path toward truth is imagined as one that could be taken without passing through the contradictions and errors that characterize the earlier stages of experience.

This concern echoes what was previously discussed: the desire to begin immediately with science. This impulse reflects a common tendency to seek certainty and completion without first engaging with the necessary process of development. It is a desire to skip over the process of self-discovery, the struggle with contradiction, and the negation of incomplete knowledge, and to jump straight to a final, absolute understanding. However, as we have already noted, such a shortcut would bypass the essential dialectical movement of spirit. Without engaging with the false, spirit cannot truly understand or experience the true. The movement through the negative is not a detour or an unnecessary delay; it is a crucial part of the process of becoming, where the false is not merely rejected but integrated into the larger, evolving understanding of truth.

Here, we address the nature of the negative, particularly as the false. The false, in the context of the dialectical process, is not merely an error or a mistake to be discarded. It represents a moment of necessary self-differentiation, where truth emerges only by confronting and transcending the false. The false is an essential part of the unfolding of spirit, because it reveals what is incomplete or partial and points the way toward greater truth. It is through the engagement with the false—the moment of contradiction, error, or incompleteness—that spirit deepens its understanding and moves toward a more comprehensive, self-conscious knowledge. The negative is not merely something to be avoided or eliminated but a crucial force that propels spirit forward on its journey toward truth. In this sense, the false is not the opposite of the true, but a necessary moment within the movement of truth itself.

Misconceptions about the negative are a principal obstacle to entering the realm of truth. The negative, often misunderstood as mere absence or contradiction, becomes a significant barrier for those seeking to engage with truth at a deeper, philosophical level. When the negative is seen only as something undesirable or false, it is difficult to comprehend how it is not just an impediment but an essential, driving force in the development of understanding. This misunderstanding prevents individuals from recognizing that the false and the negative are not merely to be rejected, but rather must be integrated into the process of coming to know the true. As a result, many remain stuck in superficial conceptions of truth, unable to grasp the dynamic, dialectical nature of reality. The false is often seen as a detour rather than a necessary step, and this misconception becomes a principal obstacle to advancing into the deeper, more complex realm of truth.

This provides an occasion to discuss mathematical knowledge, which unphilosophical thinking often regards as the ideal that philosophy should aspire to achieve—an aspiration that, to this point, has supposedly failed. Mathematics, with its clear definitions, precise formulas, and unambiguous truths, has long been seen by some as the model of knowledge that philosophy should strive to emulate. The appeal of mathematics lies in its apparent certainty and objectivity, its ability to derive exact solutions from clearly defined axioms. For those unfamiliar with philosophical thinking, the seeming clarity and certainty of mathematics make it the ideal form of knowledge, one that philosophy has not yet fully attained. In this view, philosophy is seen as vague and indeterminate, whereas mathematics represents the epitome of logical, unquestionable truth. The idea that philosophy should aim to be as precise and universally valid as mathematics is a deeply ingrained misconception in unphilosophical thinking.

This aspiration, however, overlooks the fundamental difference between the nature of mathematical knowledge and that of philosophical knowledge. The focus on mathematical certainty ignores the dialectical, self-reflective movement that characterizes philosophical inquiry. While mathematics may offer an ideal of clarity and structure, philosophy operates in a different realm, where truth is not simply a matter of deductive reasoning from fixed principles but involves engaging with contradiction, the negative, and the evolving nature of reality. The belief that philosophy has failed because it does not achieve the same kind of absolute certainty as mathematics is itself a misconception, one that fails to appreciate the deeper, transformative role of the negative in the philosophical process.

The concepts of truth and falsehood belong to fixed thoughts that are often regarded as independent entities, isolated from one another without any connection. In conventional thinking, truth and falsehood are frequently treated as opposing, static entities—truth is seen as an unquestionable reality, and falsehood as its antithesis. These concepts are often thought of in absolute terms, as if truth exists as an immutable, self-evident fact, and falsehood is merely its negation, something to be discarded. Such a view treats truth and falsehood as distinct, separate categories that exist independently of each other, without acknowledging the dynamic, relational nature of both. This static conception does not allow for the understanding that the truth is not simply a fixed entity, nor does it grasp the negative movement that the false contributes to the dialectical process of knowledge.

Against this, it must be asserted that truth is not a minted coin ready to be handed over and accepted as it is. Truth, in its philosophical sense, is not something that can simply be dispensed or handed over as a finished, unalterable fact. It is not a commodity that can be easily acquired or passively accepted. Rather, truth is a dynamic, evolving concept that emerges through the dialectical movement of thought and experience. It is not an object of mere acquisition, but a process that unfolds over time, one that requires engagement, reflection, and development. Truth cannot be reduced to a simple or final statement; it is always in motion, always subject to further exploration and refinement as consciousness and understanding evolve.

Nor does falsehood exist any more than evil exists. Just as truth cannot be understood as a static, isolated entity, falsehood too cannot be treated as a fixed, independent reality. The concept of falsehood is similarly fluid, a moment in the development of knowledge that points toward what is incomplete or unreflected. Falsehood does not exist as a thing unto itself but is always the negation of what is true, a moment in the process that ultimately serves to advance understanding. Similarly, the concept of evil is not an independent, substantive force but a moment in the moral and ethical development of spirit, pointing to what is deficient or harmful. Both falsehood and evil exist as part of a larger process, always in relation to truth and good, and cannot be treated as isolated, autonomous forces.

Evil and falsehood, though formidable, are not as dire as the devil, for as such, they are elevated to the status of particular subjects. In certain theological or moral frameworks, falsehood and evil are often personified, elevated to the status of concrete, almost mythological forces like the devil. However, when we view them philosophically, falsehood and evil do not have such distinct, particularized existence. They are not independent subjects with agency of their own; they are rather moments within the larger dialectical movement of truth and good. When treated as mere forces of opposition, they become exaggerated and distorted, losing their true nature as necessary moments in the process of development.

As falsehood and evil, they remain general but are still often thought to have distinct existence relative to one another. Despite their more general nature, falsehood and evil are often treated as if they exist in opposition to their counterparts—truth and good—as distinct and separate entities. This thinking can distort our understanding of these concepts, as it oversimplifies the dialectical relationship between them. Falsehood and evil, in their more general forms, are not independent realities but are moments in the ongoing unfolding of spirit, where truth and goodness ultimately prevail through their reconciliation of the negative. Recognizing the interrelation between truth and falsehood, good and evil, allows for a more sophisticated, nuanced understanding of these concepts, one that sees them not as fixed entities but as elements in the dynamic process of becoming.

Falsehood would be the other, the negative of substance, which as the content of knowledge is the true. In this context, falsehood is not merely an absence of truth but a necessary moment in the process of knowing. It is the other side, the negative, that stands in opposition to the truth, yet is intimately connected to it. Falsehood arises when knowledge is discordant with the true substance of reality. It represents the misalignment, the failure of knowledge to correctly reflect or correspond to the underlying reality it seeks to understand. However, it is important to recognize that falsehood, in this sense, is not simply something to be discarded or avoided. It is an essential part of the dialectical process through which knowledge develops and becomes more refined. The tension between truth and falsehood is what drives thought forward, pushing consciousness to confront its own limitations and engage with the complexity of reality.

However, substance itself is essentially the negative: partly as the differentiation and determination of content, and partly as a simple differentiation—that is, as selfhood and knowledge in general. Substance, in its most fundamental form, is not a static, unchanging entity but a dynamic force that is inherently negative. This negativity manifests in two ways: first, as the differentiation and determination of content, and second, as a basic differentiation—the distinction between what is and what is not. This negative force is what gives substance its form and structure. It is through differentiation that substance takes shape, distinguishing one thing from another and creating the conditions for knowledge to arise. Moreover, this negative force is not something external to substance but is inherent to its very nature. It is through this internal negativity, this ability to differentiate and determine, that substance becomes self-conscious and capable of knowledge. Substance and knowledge are intertwined, and the negativity within substance is what enables it to become the object of thought.

One can indeed know falsely. To say that something is known falsely means that knowledge is in discord with its substance. False knowledge arises when the “I,” or the knowing subject, fails to apprehend the truth of the object or substance. The knowledge in question does not accurately reflect the reality it is meant to represent; it is out of harmony with the underlying substance. Falsehood, therefore, is not merely a superficial mistake but a deeper dissonance between what is known and what is true. This discord highlights the limitations of human knowledge, the ways in which consciousness can fail to fully grasp the object of knowledge. However, rather than simply marking the end of the process, this discord becomes the catalyst for further development. It points to the necessity of overcoming the gap between knowledge and truth, compelling the spirit to progress toward greater understanding.

Yet this very discord is differentiation as such, which is an essential moment. The very fact that knowledge can be false is not a flaw in the process of knowing, but an essential moment in the development of consciousness. Falsehood is the negative pole of knowledge, and it is through this negativity that thought is able to differentiate, refine, and grow. This discord is not something to be avoided but something to be engaged with, as it marks the point where knowledge must confront its limitations and move beyond them. It is in the confrontation with falsehood that knowledge becomes more sophisticated and self-aware, leading to a deeper understanding of the truth.

From this differentiation arises equality, and this achieved equality is truth. The dialectical process through which falsehood is confronted and integrated into knowledge ultimately leads to the realization of truth. Through the movement of differentiation and negation, knowledge is refined and elevated, and the discord between knowing and substance is resolved. The equality that arises is not a simple balance but a synthesis, where the opposition between falsehood and truth is overcome. This achieved equality represents the unity of thought and being, where the subject (the “I”) and the object (substance) are no longer in conflict but are united in a higher, self-conscious understanding. This unity is the truth, the realization of knowledge in its fullest, most integrated form.

However, truth is not such that discord is simply discarded like slag from pure metal, nor even like a tool left aside once the finished vessel is complete. In many conventional understandings, truth is seen as a final, pristine state—something that arises once all contradictions and imperfections are resolved, with the discord discarded as irrelevant or unnecessary. In this view, the negative is treated as an impurity to be eliminated, like the waste products that are separated from metal in the process of purification, or like a tool that is no longer needed after a task has been completed. Once the final product is achieved, all that remains is the pure, refined essence, and the negative, the discord, is left behind as something superfluous.

However, this is not how truth operates in its fullest sense. Rather, discord, as the negative and as selfhood, is still present in truth itself as such. The nature of truth is not simply the elimination of all opposition or conflict, but the integration of discord into its very being. Truth does not arise from a state of unchanging simplicity or pure harmony, but from the active engagement with and resolution of contradictions. The negative, the discord that initially appears as a hindrance or imperfection, is not discarded but absorbed into the very essence of truth. It is the movement of the negative, the tension and opposition between concepts, that drives the process of becoming, of self-realization, and of the unfolding of knowledge. In this sense, truth is not static or final, but a dynamic, self-evolving process that incorporates the negative as an essential moment in its own development.

This means that discord, as the negative, is not a force that is overcome and left behind, but a force that is integrated into the very structure of truth. The negative is not external to truth but constitutes part of its internal movement. It is through this ongoing dialectical engagement with the negative that truth remains alive and self-moving, constantly evolving and reflecting upon itself. The presence of discord within truth itself signifies that truth is not a simple, static state but a living, evolving reality, constantly in motion and development.

It cannot, however, be said that falsehood constitutes a moment or component of truth. While falsehood and truth are intricately connected within the dialectical process, falsehood does not simply serve as a moment within truth itself. The idea that “there is something true in every falsehood” is an attempt to capture the interrelationship between truth and falsehood, but it is often misunderstood as suggesting that falsehood contains some inherent, positive truth. This view can imply that falsehood is merely the opposite side of truth, and that it holds some kernel of truth within it, as though truth and falsehood are interchangeable or fluid within one another. This interpretation, however, overlooks the essential distinction between the two.

The claim that there is something true in every falsehood suggests a relationship between the two like oil and water—externally connected yet unmixed. Truth and falsehood are seen as separate and distinct entities, much like oil and water which may come into contact but will never truly blend or mix. They coexist in some manner but remain separate in nature. Such a relationship implies that falsehood and truth are externally related yet do not merge or become one; they maintain their own distinctiveness, without truly integrating into each other. This image of external connection, however, does not fully capture the deeper dynamic of their relationship, where falsehood and truth are moments within the broader dialectical movement. In this movement, the opposition between them is not static but fluid, where each moment evolves into the other as part of the unfolding process of knowledge and self-consciousness.

To properly convey the significance of the moment of complete otherness, terms such as “falsehood” should no longer be used in the context where their opposition is sublated. When we move beyond the initial opposition between truth and falsehood, the terms themselves become inadequate for describing the process. In the dialectical movement, where the opposition between truth and falsehood is transcended or sublated, these concepts no longer maintain their earlier meaning or function. “Falsehood” in its traditional sense—something entirely separate from truth, something to be rejected or eliminated—loses its relevance once its opposition to truth has been sublated. In this stage, truth is no longer something merely opposed to falsehood, nor is falsehood something that contains an intrinsic truth. Instead, the relationship between the two transforms, and the moment of complete otherness—where falsehood and truth stand in opposition—becomes part of a larger, more integrated whole. Therefore, to properly express the significance of this moment, we must move beyond the simplistic use of “falsehood” as a separate, opposed entity and recognize it as part of the larger, dynamic movement that constitutes the unfolding of truth.

Just as the expression of the unity of subject and object, finite and infinite, or being and thought suffers from the inadequacy that these terms retain their meaning as separate entities even within their unity, falsehood is no longer, as falsehood, a moment of truth. The problem arises when we attempt to express the unity of opposites—such as subject and object, finite and infinite, or being and thought—without fully transcending their initial separateness. In the process of dialectical integration, these terms are meant to be united, yet when we continue to think of them as distinct, separate categories, even within their unity, we fail to fully grasp their dynamic relationship. For example, while subject and object, when unified, form a more complete understanding of consciousness, the terms themselves still carry the legacy of their original opposition. The unity they form is not simply the reconciliation of two separate entities but the realization of a deeper, more integrated totality. However, if we hold onto their initial meanings as distinct and separate, we cannot fully comprehend the unity they form in their dialectical relationship.

Similarly, falsehood, in its traditional sense, cannot be regarded as simply a moment within truth once the opposition between them has been sublated. In earlier stages of development, falsehood might have been seen as the opposite or negation of truth, and in this sense, it could be considered a necessary moment in the process of arriving at truth. However, once the dialectical movement has transcended this opposition, falsehood is no longer simply a moment within the unfolding of truth. It is not merely the opposite side of truth or something that contains a fragment of truth within it. Instead, the dynamic movement of truth no longer allows for the false to be a separate entity or a moment of the true. As the opposition is overcome, falsehood is integrated into the larger totality of truth in a way that transcends its previous role as a mere negation. In this new understanding, falsehood is not discarded or dismissed, but its function as an independent, opposing force dissolves into the greater unity of truth.

The dogmatism of the mindset in knowledge and the study of philosophy consists in the belief that the true resides in a proposition that represents a fixed result or is immediately known. This mindset assumes that truth is something external and final, something that can be fully encapsulated in a single, fixed statement or proposition. It views knowledge as a matter of simply stating the right answer to a question or grasping a pre-determined, unchanging truth. According to this perspective, truth is seen as something objective, external to the process of understanding itself, and easily accessible through direct representation. The belief that truth can be contained within a fixed proposition—one that is immediately recognized or understood—reduces the complexity and dynamism of knowledge into a static set of answers, often overlooking the deeper process of becoming and self-realization that is integral to true understanding.

To questions such as: “When was Caesar born?” “How many fathoms make a stadium?” or “What was its measurement?”—one expects a precise answer, just as it is definitively true that the square of the hypotenuse equals the sum of the squares of the other two sides in a right triangle. These types of questions seem to exemplify the mindset that seeks knowledge as a set of concrete, definitive answers—answers that are seen as fixed, objective facts to be memorized and regurgitated. Whether we are asking about historical facts, specific measurements, or mathematical truths, the expectation is that there is a single, unambiguous answer that can be immediately known and confirmed. In this mindset, knowledge is often treated as a simple retrieval of discrete facts, as though each piece of information exists in isolation, waiting to be discovered or acknowledged.

However, this approach to knowledge overlooks the dynamic, evolving nature of understanding, especially in the realm of philosophy. Philosophy is not concerned with merely determining fixed answers or establishing unquestionable propositions; it is engaged in a deeper, more reflective process, one that seeks to uncover the underlying principles and relationships that shape reality. The true nature of philosophical inquiry lies not in answering isolated questions with precise, final answers, but in exploring the complexity and interconnectedness of concepts, engaging with contradictions, and understanding the evolving nature of truth itself. Thus, the dogmatic mindset that seeks immediate, definitive answers represents a limited and reductionist view of knowledge, one that fails to grasp the living, dynamic process through which true understanding unfolds.

However, the nature of such so-called truths differs fundamentally from the nature of philosophical truths. The “truths” found in factual questions—such as the birthdate of Caesar, the measurement of a stadium, or the Pythagorean theorem—are often seen as fixed, objective facts that exist independently of the subject’s perception or understanding. These truths can be measured, calculated, and verified through external means, and they appear to be immutable and certain. They represent a particular kind of knowledge, one that is concerned with the accumulation of discrete, verifiable information about the world. In this sense, these “truths” are static and self-contained, offering no room for ambiguity or reinterpretation. Once known, they are set and do not require further exploration or development.

In contrast, philosophical truths are of a fundamentally different nature. Philosophy does not concern itself with isolated, static facts that can be definitively proven or easily known. Instead, philosophical truth engages with the deeper, often complex and paradoxical questions of existence, knowledge, morality, and meaning. Philosophical inquiry is characterized by its dialectical nature, where concepts and ideas are constantly tested, questioned, and developed in relation to one another. Philosophical truths are not fixed, immediate answers to questions, but rather dynamic, evolving insights that emerge through the process of reflection, dialogue, and critical engagement with the complexities of reality. Unlike the certainty and finality associated with empirical facts, philosophical truths often involve ambiguity, contradictions, and tensions that must be embraced and worked through in order to arrive at a deeper understanding.

Thus, while so-called factual truths may be valuable in their own right, they operate within a different framework than philosophical truths, which require the openness to transformation and the recognition that truth is not something to be passively received but something to be actively pursued, constantly revised, and understood within the broader, interconnected whole of human experience.

Regarding historical truths—briefly to mention them—insofar as their purely historical aspect is considered, it is readily acknowledged that they pertain to particular existences, content characterized by contingency and arbitrariness, with determinations that are not necessary. Historical truths, when viewed in their most basic form, are often concerned with specific events, figures, or facts that belong to particular moments in time. These truths are contingent in the sense that they depend on specific circumstances, choices, and occurrences that could have been different. They are shaped by the unfolding of history, which is marked by a degree of randomness or arbitrariness. The events that constitute historical truths do not necessarily follow from one another in a logical or predetermined way, but rather emerge from the complex interplay of human actions, social forces, and chance occurrences. Because of this contingency, historical truths often appear as isolated, particular facts without inherent necessity or universal applicability.

However, even such bare truths, like the examples mentioned, are not devoid of the movement of self-consciousness. While historical truths may seem to be simple, factual statements about the past, they are always intertwined with the movement of self-consciousness. This means that even seemingly arbitrary or contingent facts are not separate from the reflective activity of human thought and understanding. Historical truths are interpreted, narrated, and understood through the lens of self-consciousness, which means that they are not merely objective occurrences, but are always mediated by the consciousness that seeks to understand them. The way we come to know historical truths involves a process of reflection, interpretation, and context, where the past is reconstructed and given meaning through the consciousness of the present. In this sense, even historical facts are shaped by the dynamic, evolving movement of human thought and self-awareness. The movement of self-consciousness is not limited to philosophical truths alone but extends into all forms of knowledge, including history, as it seeks to comprehend, integrate, and make sense of the world.

To know one of these truths, much must be compared, researched, or investigated in books or by other means. The process of acquiring historical truths often involves extensive effort and engagement, requiring comparison of various sources, the research of primary documents, or the investigation of evidence through different methods. These truths are not immediately accessible or self-evident; they must be unearthed through diligent study, critical analysis, and the synthesis of information from multiple perspectives. Whether through the pages of books, the examination of artifacts, or interviews with experts, the pursuit of historical knowledge requires a deeper engagement with the world of past events. Even with direct observation, understanding the full significance of a historical truth often demands careful consideration and contextualization within a broader framework of knowledge and experience.

Even in the case of immediate observation, the knowledge of such truths along with their reasons is treated as something of real value, despite the fact that it is ostensibly only the bare result that matters. Even when historical facts appear to be directly observable or readily accessible, their full understanding requires more than just acknowledging the immediate, observable details. The value of historical knowledge lies not only in the bare facts but also in the reasons, causes, and context behind those facts. The raw data or immediate observations are significant, but their true value is realized only when they are examined and understood in their deeper, philosophical context. This means that historical truths are not merely about the surface-level information but about uncovering the reasoning, the motivations, and the implications that lie beneath the facts. In this way, historical knowledge is not a passive reception of truth, but an active, reflective process that seeks to understand the connections and meanings behind events. Despite the fact that the final, immediate result—the factual truth—may appear to be the end of the process, the deeper value comes from engaging with the reasoning and the broader context that illuminate the significance of that truth.

Regarding mathematical truths, one would scarcely regard as a geometer someone who merely memorized Euclid’s theorems without understanding their proofs or, as one might phrase it, without knowing them internally. In mathematics, true knowledge goes beyond the mere ability to recall established results or formulas; it requires a deep understanding of the underlying principles that make these theorems valid. To memorize theorems without engaging with the reasoning and logic behind them is to miss the essence of mathematical knowledge. A true geometer, for example, does not just repeat Euclid’s theorems by rote but internalizes the proofs and understands how each theorem follows from the axioms and the previous steps of reasoning. This internalization is crucial because it reflects an active, reflective process of knowing, where the individual engages with the mathematical truths in a way that allows for understanding, application, and even the ability to generate new knowledge within the framework of geometry.

Similarly, knowledge obtained by measuring many right triangles to discover that their sides maintain the known ratio would be considered unsatisfactory. This approach, while empirical, is limited in its depth and understanding. The mere observation that the sides of right triangles adhere to a particular ratio (such as the Pythagorean theorem) through repeated measurement does not capture the true nature of the theorem. Such empirical observations are valuable in confirming the truth of the theorem, but they do not engage with the mathematical reasoning that explains why the theorem holds in the first place. True mathematical knowledge is not simply the accumulation of empirical data or the confirmation of facts through measurement; it is the comprehension of the principles that underlie these truths, the ability to grasp their necessity and logical structure. Without this deeper understanding, the knowledge of the theorem remains incomplete, akin to merely recognizing a pattern without understanding the law that governs it.

The necessity of proof in mathematical knowledge does not, however, imbue the proof with the same meaning and nature as a moment of the result itself. In mathematics, the process of proof is indispensable in establishing the truth of a theorem, but this process is not inherently part of the content of the theorem. The proof serves as a means of justification, a logical pathway through which the validity of the result is confirmed. However, once the theorem has been established through the proof, the proof itself is no longer a living part of the result. The result—the truth of the theorem—is now recognized as a self-contained entity, independent of the proof that led to it. The proof, though essential for knowledge, does not remain as a component of the theorem in its final state; it is merely the process through which the truth is uncovered. As such, in the result, the proof has passed away and disappeared. It no longer resides within the theorem as something integral but has fulfilled its role and receded into the background. The theorem is then recognized as true, but the proof is not seen as a part of the truth itself—it is only a means to an end, a necessary intermediary step that does not remain within the final, abstracted result.

As a result, the theorem is recognized as true, but this additional aspect pertains only to its relation to the subject, not to the content itself. The truth of the theorem exists independently of the proof and is accessible to the subject who understands it. The recognition of truth in this context is not tied to the ongoing activity of proving but to the cognition of the result itself. The content of the theorem—the relationships it expresses—remains constant, whether or not the proof is recalled. The proof is an external activity that aids the subject in understanding the truth, but it is not an inherent part of the content of the theorem itself. Thus, while the proof establishes the truth for the subject, it is the subject’s understanding and recognition of the theorem as true that constitute the final, enduring moment of mathematical knowledge.

The movement of mathematical proof does not belong to the object itself but is an external activity imposed on it. Proof, as a process, exists outside of the object (the mathematical entity being studied) and is a means by which the subject comes to grasp the relationships within that object. The proof does not arise from the nature of the right triangle itself; rather, it is an external activity—a logical construction applied to the object in order to reveal its properties. For example, the nature of a right triangle does not inherently decompose itself as it is depicted in the construction necessary for proving the theorem that expresses its relationships. The triangle does not naturally reveal its properties through its own internal structure; it is through the external activity of the proof that these relationships are made clear. The entire process of deriving the result is a pathway and means of cognition. It is through the proof that the subject comes to know the relationships between the sides of the triangle, and this movement of cognition is a crucial aspect of how mathematical knowledge is acquired. However, once the result is known, the proof itself becomes secondary to the object of knowledge—the recognized truth of the theorem.

In philosophical knowing, too, the becoming of existence (Dasein) as existence is distinct from the becoming of essence or the inner nature of the matter. In philosophy, the process of knowing is inherently dialectical and dynamic, engaging not only with the external, empirical aspects of existence but also with the deeper, more abstract essence or inner nature of things. The “becoming of existence” refers to the unfolding of a thing’s presence, its empirical, outward manifestation in the world, while the “becoming of essence” involves the conceptual and reflective understanding of the underlying principles, the essential truths that give rise to and shape the existence of phenomena. These two processes—existence and essence—are distinct, but in philosophy, they are inseparable and interdependent. The philosopher does not simply observe the external reality of things; they engage with the essence, the underlying structures and principles that shape those realities, seeking to understand how the material world and its deeper nature are interconnected.

However, philosophical knowledge incorporates both aspects, whereas mathematical knowledge represents only the becoming of existence—that is, the being of the matter’s nature within the act of knowing itself. Mathematical knowledge, on the other hand, is more focused and constrained. It deals primarily with the external reality of the world, understanding the relationships and structures that govern it through logical and formal systems. Mathematics addresses the “becoming of existence” by analyzing the quantitative and spatial properties of things, exploring the patterns and relationships that emerge in the material world. However, mathematical knowledge does not concern itself with the inner essence or the qualitative, philosophical nature of these things in the same way that philosophy does. In mathematics, the act of knowing is tied directly to the properties and behaviors of the objects being studied, but it does not engage with the deeper, more conceptual aspects of those objects. Mathematical knowledge is primarily concerned with representing the external world through abstract structures and relationships, where the emphasis is on precision and formal proof, rather than on uncovering the underlying essence or the deeper meaning of existence.

Thus, while both philosophical and mathematical knowledge aim to understand reality, they do so in fundamentally different ways. Philosophy embraces the full complexity of existence, incorporating both the empirical and the essential dimensions of reality, whereas mathematics focuses on the becoming of existence itself, examining the structures and patterns of the world through abstract, formalized means.

Moreover, philosophical knowledge unifies these two distinct movements. While mathematical knowledge is primarily concerned with the external, empirical reality of things, philosophical knowledge transcends this limitation by integrating both the external and the internal aspects of reality. The inner emergence, or the becoming of substance, refers to the development of the essence, the underlying nature of a thing, which is continuously unfolding and revealing itself. However, this inner emergence is inseparably tied to its transition into the external or into existence. The essence, in its becoming, must manifest outwardly in the world, engaging with and affecting the external reality. In other words, the process of becoming substance is also the process of its becoming-for-other—the transition of the essence into the realm of external, observable existence. This dialectical relationship demonstrates that the essence is not static or isolated; rather, it is inherently dynamic, seeking to realize itself in the external world.

Conversely, the becoming of existence is its return into essence. While substance moves into the external world and becomes manifest, existence, in turn, seeks to return to its essential nature. The external, material world is not merely a collection of isolated phenomena but is in a constant process of reflecting and re-integrating itself into its deeper, underlying essence. The external world, in its unfolding, does not remain disconnected from its essence but constantly strives to embody and reflect the principles that underlie its existence. This cyclical process of becoming-for-other and returning to essence is the heart of philosophical inquiry, where the external world and the internal essence are seen as interrelated, constantly influencing and shaping each other.

Thus, the movement is a double process and the becoming of the whole, wherein each simultaneously posits the other and each, therefore, contains both aspects within itself as two perspectives. In philosophical knowledge, these two movements—one toward the external and one back to the internal—are not opposed but are mutually constitutive. Each moment of becoming substance is also an act of becoming-for-other, just as each moment of becoming-for-other is simultaneously a return to the essence. These two perspectives are inseparable and must be understood together, as each posits and constitutes the other. The whole, in its dynamic movement, is not simply the sum of these two processes, but the very synthesis of their interaction, where the external and the internal are unified into a single, dynamic movement of becoming.

Together, they form the whole by resolving themselves into its moments. The entire process of philosophical knowledge is not about one aspect of reality dominating the other, but about the integration of both—the external world of existence and the internal world of essence—into a single, unified whole. This whole is not a static entity, but a living, evolving process in which each moment is both a resolution of the previous moments and a step toward the unfolding of the next. In this way, philosophical knowledge transcends the limitations of both pure empirical observation and abstract conceptualization, integrating them into a dynamic, holistic understanding of reality.

In mathematical cognition, insight is an activity external to the matter itself. Mathematical knowledge, while precise and structured, operates on a level of abstraction that is distinct from the true nature of the objects it studies. The process of mathematical cognition involves constructing, proving, and manipulating concepts in ways that are not inherent to the objects themselves. These activities of insight—whether through geometric constructions, algebraic manipulations, or logical proofs—are imposed upon the mathematical object from an external standpoint. The act of mathematical reasoning is not an internal development of the object, but an external application of methods to reveal relationships or structures that exist within it. In this sense, the activity of gaining insight is separate from the object’s intrinsic qualities, as the focus shifts away from the object’s natural state to the abstracted forms created during the process.

As a result, the true nature of the object is altered through this process. The inherent properties of the mathematical object are not directly experienced during the steps of the proof or construction. Instead, they are transformed or reinterpreted as they are subjected to the methods of mathematical cognition. The object, whether a triangle, a geometric figure, or an algebraic expression, is not merely presented as it is but is manipulated and dissected to reveal its properties in a manner that aligns with the mathematical system. This transformation of the object through external activity—whether through decomposition, abstraction, or reorganization—alters the object’s immediate nature, as the focus is not on its raw, intuitive form but on the relationships and properties that emerge from the imposed methods.

The methods—construction and proof—indeed contain true propositions, but it must equally be said that the content is, in a sense, false. While the results of the construction or proof are logically true within the system of mathematics, the content they deal with is not immediately true to the object itself. The process of constructing and proving involves steps that abstract away from the natural state of the object, breaking it down into parts that may not directly correspond to its initial, intuitive form. In this sense, the content of the process is false because it is not the object in its direct, unaltered form but rather a representation or a model created through the methods of mathematical insight. These methods, while leading to true conclusions, do not operate on the object in its purest, most original sense but on a transformed version of it.

For example, in the case of the triangle, it is dismantled, and its parts are transformed into other figures created through the construction imposed upon it. In the process of proving geometric theorems, a triangle is not simply observed or measured; it is broken down into components, restructured, and transformed through the construction process. These parts—whether they be lines, angles, or other shapes—are not immediately recognizable as the triangle itself, but as elements of the broader mathematical structure being developed. The very act of constructing a proof imposes a form upon the triangle that does not reflect its raw, intuitive shape, instead creating new relationships that lead to a deeper understanding of its properties.

Only at the end is the triangle reconstructed, which was the actual focus of the investigation but had been lost from view during the process, appearing only in fragments that belonged to other wholes. The final step of the mathematical process—the conclusion or the result—reconstructs the object (in this case, the triangle) in a form that represents its true nature as understood through the mathematical system. Throughout the process, the triangle was fragmented, manipulated, and abstracted, appearing only in parts, each belonging to a larger whole or mathematical framework. It is only at the end, when the proof is complete and the construction finalized, that the object—the triangle—is recognized as a whole again. In this way, the process of mathematical cognition is a journey of abstraction and transformation, where the object is continually reshaped and reinterpreted before it is ultimately understood in its complete, true form.

Here, we also observe the negativity of the content, which could just as well be called a falsehood of the content, akin to the way fixed, determinate thoughts dissolve in the movement of the concept. In the process of mathematical cognition, the very content of the object undergoes transformation and abstraction. Initially, the object may appear as a fixed, determinate entity—such as a triangle with fixed properties or a geometric figure with defined relationships. However, as the process unfolds, this content is no longer static; it becomes subjected to the movement of thought, which reconfigures it through the methods of construction, proof, and abstraction. The content, in this sense, loses its original form and essence as it is manipulated by the reasoning process, taking on new meanings and relations that are part of the larger conceptual system being developed.

This transformation can be described as a form of negativity, as the original, immediate content of the object is negated or dissolved in the movement of thought. The “falsehood” of the content refers to the fact that it is no longer the raw, unrefined reality of the object, but a re-imagined, abstracted version that exists only in the context of the proof or construction. It is not the object as it exists in the world or in intuition, but rather a representation of that object as understood through mathematical reasoning. Just as in the dialectical movement of the concept, where fixed and determinate thoughts dissolve and evolve into more complex forms of understanding, so too does the object in mathematical cognition lose its fixed determinacy as it is subjected to the logic and structure of the proof. The object is not simply observed or recognized in its immediate form, but rather transformed and abstracted as part of the larger process of thought.

This process mirrors the way fixed, determinate thoughts dissolve in the movement of the concept. In philosophical and dialectical thinking, determinate, fixed concepts are often subject to negation as part of their development. The concept evolves as contradictions arise, forcing it to transcend its initial, limited form and integrate more complex, broader aspects. Similarly, in mathematics, the content of the object dissolves as it is taken through the various steps of reasoning and construction, where the content is viewed through a conceptual framework that reshapes it and reveals its relationships in a more abstract form. Both in philosophy and in mathematics, the transformation of the content—whether it be a concept or an object—is not a loss of meaning, but a necessary step in the movement toward a deeper, more complete understanding of the whole.

The true deficiency of this mode of cognition lies in both the process of knowing itself and its subject matter. The limitation of this mode of cognition arises not only from the nature of the object being studied but also from the process by which knowledge is obtained. In the case of mathematical cognition, while the process of proof and construction provides valid results, it remains external to the object itself. The process of knowing is not an internal development of the object, but an imposition upon it, where the object is transformed and abstracted in ways that do not reflect its true, intuitive nature. The very act of external manipulation—whether through measurement, construction, or proof—alters the object, distancing it from its essence and stripping it of its immediate, lived reality. This external approach, while necessary for mathematical reasoning, cannot provide a full, holistic understanding of the object itself, as it only addresses one aspect of the object’s nature and omits its broader, contextual existence.

Additionally, the subject matter itself—whether a geometric figure, a number, or a theorem—also exhibits a deficiency. The object is not experienced or known in its raw, unmediated form but is instead abstracted and reshaped through the conceptual tools of mathematics. The content of the object is fragmented, and its deeper, essential nature is obscured by the process of mathematical construction and proof. The object, in its mathematical representation, becomes an artificial construct that exists only within the confines of the specific mathematical system being applied. This abstraction leads to a form of knowing that is removed from the lived reality of the object, and it is only through the final, synthesized result that the object is “reconstructed” and understood. However, this reconstruction is not the same as the direct experience or intuitive grasp of the object, and thus a certain deficiency remains in the way the object is known through this external process.

Thus, the deficiency lies in the fact that both the process of knowing and the subject matter are mediated through abstraction. The process, while logically sound, remains external to the object, and the object itself is not fully known in its concrete, holistic form. The act of knowing in this mode is a fragmented, mediated one, rather than an immediate, direct understanding that incorporates the object’s full essence. This deficiency highlights the limitations of this mode of cognition, which, though effective in certain domains, cannot offer a complete or fully integrated understanding of reality.

Regarding the process of knowing, the necessity of the construction is not immediately evident. In mathematical reasoning, particularly in the process of geometric construction, the necessity of the steps involved is not always immediately clear or self-evident. The construction, the sequence of operations used to prove a theorem, does not naturally arise from the internal logic or the concept of the theorem itself. Rather, the construction is prescribed from outside the theorem’s intrinsic concept—typically dictated by a set of rules or procedures that are external to the essence of the object being studied. This means that the steps of the construction, while necessary to reach the desired result, are not intrinsically derived from the theorem’s own structure but are imposed upon it. The need for certain lines to be drawn or specific points to be established is not immediately apparent from the theorem’s concept but comes from an external procedure that must be followed.

The construction does not arise from the concept of the theorem itself but is instead prescribed. The process of constructing a proof involves steps that are not an organic part of the concept of the theorem but rather a series of prescribed operations. The relationships between the various components of the proof are not immediately visible through the intrinsic properties of the geometric figure or mathematical object, but are instead introduced by the method of construction itself. This external prescription makes the process of construction seem somewhat arbitrary—an application of a method rather than an unfolding of the object’s inherent truth. The theorem’s proof does not naturally flow from its concept; instead, it requires the application of external steps, which are determined by the mathematical system rather than the object’s essence.

One is required to blindly follow this instruction—drawing these specific lines out of the infinite possible alternatives—without knowing why, relying only on the faith that this will serve the proof’s purpose. In this context, the act of following the prescribed instructions becomes a kind of blind adherence to a set of procedures. The mathematician does not necessarily understand the deeper reasoning behind every step of the construction as it occurs. They are simply instructed to draw specific lines, make certain assumptions, or take specific actions, often without knowing why these particular steps are necessary in the moment. The faith that these steps will lead to the desired result is based on the belief in the overall logical structure of the proof, rather than on an immediate understanding of why each specific action is required. In this sense, the process of mathematical construction involves a level of trust in the method and the system being followed, even though the necessity of each individual step is not always apparent at the outset.

This purposefulness becomes apparent only afterward, during the proof, which is why it remains external; its necessity is not intrinsic but revealed retrospectively. The process of mathematical construction often appears arbitrary at first—certain steps seem to be taken without any immediate connection to the end goal. The full rationale for the steps, the specific choices made during the construction, only becomes clear in hindsight, after the proof is completed. The necessity of each action is not immediately evident when it is taken, nor is it derived from the concept of the theorem itself. Instead, the steps are guided by an external purpose—a set of rules or a procedure that is applied without initially understanding how it will lead to the conclusion. It is only after the proof has been completed and the connections between the steps are revealed that the purpose of the individual actions becomes clear. Therefore, this purposefulness is not inherent in the steps themselves but is retroactively understood as the proof unfolds.

Similarly, the proof follows a particular path that begins arbitrarily, without any clear relation to the result it aims to establish. The proof does not begin with a direct, intuitive connection between the initial steps and the final result. Rather, it follows a particular sequence of operations that, at first glance, seem disconnected from the outcome. The construction is not an unfolding of the theorem’s inherent truth but a series of logical steps that must be followed according to a prescribed method. These steps are often taken without immediate insight into why they are necessary for the final result. The path the proof takes is shaped by external requirements, not by an intrinsic logic emerging naturally from the theorem’s concept. The starting point is often arbitrary, and it is only through the course of the proof that the necessity of the steps begins to emerge.

The progression incorporates certain determinations and relations while leaving others aside, without an immediate understanding of the necessity behind these choices. In constructing a proof, certain determinations—specific assumptions, constructions, or relationships—are chosen while others are deliberately excluded. These choices may seem arbitrary or not immediately justified in terms of their relationship to the final conclusion. Some elements are emphasized, and others are ignored, and this selection is guided by the method being applied rather than by an inherent connection to the result. The necessity behind these choices is not apparent at the beginning of the process, and their justification comes only once the proof has been completed and the full logical structure is revealed.

An external purpose governs this movement. The whole process of mathematical proof is governed by an external framework—rules, axioms, and procedures that determine how the steps should unfold. The movement from one step to the next is not guided by an intrinsic understanding of why each choice is necessary but is directed by an overarching system that dictates the correct path. This external purpose—driven by the formal rules of the mathematical system—guides the proof, and only retrospectively does the purpose become fully clear, as the result confirms that the right steps were followed. In this way, the proof is not an expression of the intrinsic nature of the object being studied but a structured activity imposed upon it.

The clarity (Evidenz) that mathematics prides itself on—and which it often uses to boast superiority over philosophy—rests solely on the poverty of its purpose and the deficiency of its subject matter. Mathematics is often lauded for its precision, its clear-cut nature, and its ability to arrive at definitive, unambiguous conclusions. This clarity, however, is not a product of a deeper engagement with the subject matter but is rather a consequence of the narrow scope and limited nature of mathematical inquiry. Mathematical clarity is based on a formal structure where objects are abstracted, reduced to symbols, and manipulated according to a fixed set of rules. Because of this abstraction, mathematical knowledge is often perceived as unequivocal, straightforward, and free from the ambiguities and complexities that plague other forms of knowledge. However, this clarity comes at a cost. It arises from a subject matter that is intentionally simplified and isolated from the broader, richer complexities of reality. In mathematics, the focus is on relationships and structures that are abstracted from the material world, and as a result, it offers clarity at the expense of a deeper engagement with the fullness of existence.

This type of clarity is of a kind that philosophy must disdain. Philosophy, by contrast, engages with the richness of reality, which includes not only clear, determinate knowledge but also contradictions, ambiguities, and complexities that are intrinsic to the nature of existence. In philosophical inquiry, clarity is not something to be pursued for its own sake; rather, it is understood as part of a broader process that involves wrestling with difficult questions, engaging with oppositions, and reflecting on the unfolding of ideas over time. Philosophy does not seek the same kind of fixed, abstract clarity that mathematics does because its purpose is not to isolate or simplify but to engage with the full complexity of human existence, thought, and reality. For philosophy, clarity must be sought through a dialectical process, in which contradictions and uncertainties are not eliminated but resolved in a higher understanding. This form of clarity—emerging from the reconciliation of opposites and the unfolding of meaning over time—is far richer and more profound than the static certainty that mathematics offers. Thus, the clarity of mathematics, while valuable in its own domain, is something that philosophy must reject, as it limits the scope of inquiry and fails to address the deeper, more dynamic truths that philosophy seeks to uncover.

The purpose or concept of mathematics is magnitude, which is precisely the non-essential, conceptless relation. At the heart of mathematics lies the concept of magnitude—whether it’s the measurement of lengths, areas, volumes, or any other quantifiable property. Magnitude, however, is a non-essential relation; it is a purely numerical or spatial concept that, while immensely useful, does not engage with the deeper, more intrinsic nature of things. Magnitude, as a mathematical concept, abstracts away from the essence of objects, focusing only on their measurable properties. This reduction to a conceptless relation, devoid of any internal richness or philosophical depth, allows mathematics to operate within a framework that is limited to the manipulation of numbers, shapes, and structures. While magnitude is critical for mathematical applications, it represents only a surface-level engagement with the world, one that avoids addressing the underlying essence or the complex, interconnected nature of reality. The lack of an essential, conceptual engagement with the object of study makes mathematics an inquiry that, at its core, operates on a level that is disconnected from the deeper nature of the objects it investigates.

Thus, the movement of knowledge in mathematics occurs only on the surface; it does not engage with the essence or the concept of the matter and, for this reason, is not genuine comprehension (Begreifen). In mathematical reasoning, the focus is on calculating, measuring, and manipulating entities according to set formulas and methods. This operation, while precise and rigorous, does not extend into a deeper understanding of the subject’s essence. The mathematical process is concerned with relations and operations—such as the relationships between numbers or the properties of geometric figures—but it does not delve into the underlying concepts or intrinsic qualities of the objects themselves. The essence of an object, its true nature, is not interrogated or explored through mathematics. Instead, mathematical knowledge is limited to the surface-level manipulation of abstract symbols and magnitudes, which may produce accurate results but do not contribute to a true comprehension of the subject matter. Genuine comprehension, in a philosophical sense, involves more than just manipulating representations or discovering external properties. It requires engaging with the internal essence of an object, understanding it in its full complexity and development, and grasping its deeper conceptual structure. Mathematics, by operating within the realm of magnitude and surface-level relations, does not provide this form of comprehensive understanding.

The subject matter of mathematics, which provides its pleasing treasury of truths, is space and the unit. Mathematics draws its fundamental content from the concepts of space and the unit. Space, in this context, is treated as an abstract, empty container in which distinctions can be inscribed without any inherent dynamism. The unit—whether it be a point, a number, or a measure—serves as a fundamental building block from which mathematical relations are constructed. These elements of space and the unit form the basis of mathematical reasoning, allowing for the creation of a seemingly infinite array of precise and predictable truths. The appeal of mathematics lies in the ability to apply these abstract concepts to uncover relationships and solve problems in a logical and consistent manner. However, this approach to space is far removed from its true nature, as mathematics treats it in a purely formal, conceptual way, stripped of its concrete, dynamic qualities.

Space is the existence in which the concept inscribes its distinctions as if into an empty, lifeless element, where these distinctions likewise remain unmoving and devoid of life. In mathematical abstraction, space is not a dynamic, living, or experiential phenomenon; it is an empty, neutral field in which distinctions can be drawn and measured. The distinctions made in mathematics—whether in geometry, algebra, or calculus—are imposed onto space, rather than arising from it in an organic, living way. These distinctions remain fixed, unchanging, and separate from the flow of life. They are essentially lifeless, static concepts that do not capture the fullness of experience or the changing nature of reality. The mathematical treatment of space, while precise and useful, is devoid of the richness, movement, and interconnection that would be present in a more comprehensive, lived understanding of space.

Reality is not spatial in the way it is treated in mathematics; neither concrete sensory intuition nor philosophy concerns itself with such unreality. The way space is conceived and treated in mathematics is not an accurate reflection of how it exists in the world. Reality, as it is experienced in everyday life or understood in philosophical reflection, is far more complex and dynamic than the sterile, abstract space of mathematical inquiry. Concrete sensory intuition, which is the immediate, lived experience of the world, does not encounter space as a fixed, empty container where distinctions are made without movement or context. Instead, space is part of a vibrant, ever-changing reality, full of relational and experiential aspects that mathematics cannot capture. Similarly, philosophy, which seeks to understand the deeper essence of existence, does not reduce space to abstract measures or units but grapples with the totality of experience, the interconnectedness of being, and the unfolding of existence over time. In this sense, mathematical space is an abstraction that serves its own limited purpose but is fundamentally different from the space that is part of the lived, dynamic world of experience and philosophical reflection.

In this unreal element, the truths are correspondingly unreal, that is, fixed, dead propositions. The truths within mathematics, as they emerge from this abstract and lifeless space, lack the dynamic qualities that characterize real, living knowledge. Mathematical truths are fixed propositions—assertions about relationships, structures, or quantities that are definitive and unchanging within their system. They exist as isolated statements, each self-contained and independent, with no intrinsic connection to the flow of experience or the living world. These truths are often regarded as objective, universally applicable, but in their formalism, they are devoid of the richness and complexity of the reality they seek to describe. They exist only as abstract entities, disconnected from the processes of becoming, interaction, and transformation that characterize the world outside of mathematical abstraction.

Each proposition can stand isolated; the next begins anew without the first transitioning into the second or creating a necessary connection through the nature of the matter itself. In mathematics, each proposition stands as an independent truth, separate from the context of the others. There is no inherent necessity that links one statement to the next in a continuous, organic progression. Each theorem, each equation, is conceived in isolation and presented as a self-contained fact, with its validity confirmed by formal proof. The process of proving one statement does not inherently lead to or require the next; rather, the next proposition is often introduced as a new, independent assertion. The progression of mathematical thought, while logical and systematic, does not unfold from the essence of the material being studied but from a series of externally imposed rules and methods. There is no organic transition from one concept to the next, nor is there a necessary connection established through the inherent nature of the subject matter. Each step in the mathematical process is an isolated operation, determined by the formal structure of mathematics rather than the intrinsic, dynamic relationships within the matter itself.

Because of this principle and element—and herein lies the formal aspect of mathematical clarity—mathematical knowledge proceeds along the line of equality. The clarity that mathematics prides itself on stems from its reliance on fixed, determinate elements that exist in a state of equality with one another. This equality is not merely a superficial characteristic but a structural principle of mathematical knowledge. Mathematical knowledge, in its pursuit of certainty and precision, proceeds by defining and relating elements in terms of their equivalence or equality. Each element in a mathematical system is treated as an isolated, unchanging entity that can be compared, measured, and related to others through specific, predefined operations. In this sense, mathematics offers clarity because it operates within a framework where distinctions are clear, and everything is reduced to a simple, formal structure that can be manipulated according to strict rules. However, this clarity is ultimately a product of the formalism that governs mathematics, which limits the scope of its engagement with the world.

Dead, unmoving elements do not reach distinctions of essence, essential opposition, or inequality, nor do they lead to the transition of opposites into one another. The fixed and isolated nature of mathematical elements means that they do not engage with the essential, dynamic relationships that characterize the real world. In the world of mathematics, elements are static and do not embody the deeper, essential distinctions or oppositions that arise in more complex forms of knowledge, such as philosophy or lived experience. Mathematical entities do not reflect the tensions, contradictions, and transformations that occur in the material world or in conceptual thought. Instead of capturing the evolving, dialectical nature of reality, mathematical knowledge remains confined to the formal relations between static entities, without addressing the deeper, qualitative distinctions that give rise to movement and change. The lack of movement or transformation within these elements means that mathematics does not engage with the dynamic oppositions or contradictions that are fundamental to the unfolding of truth in other domains.

They lack qualitative, immanent, self-movement. The absence of qualitative change within mathematical entities is a defining feature of its formalism. Mathematical entities, such as numbers or geometric figures, are not self-transforming; they do not evolve or develop through internal contradiction or dialectical progression. Their relationships are purely quantitative and externally defined, lacking the immanent movement that characterizes the growth and transformation of more complex systems. This lack of internal, qualitative change is part of what gives mathematics its sense of certainty and clarity, but it also limits its ability to capture the full depth and complexity of reality. True, living knowledge requires the self-movement of concepts and entities, where their development is driven by internal contradictions and the resolution of opposites. In contrast, mathematical entities are static and defined by external relations rather than by their internal, dynamic qualities.

Instead, mathematics considers only magnitude, the non-essential difference. The focus of mathematics is on magnitude—quantifiable, measurable properties that can be expressed in terms of numbers and dimensions. Magnitude represents a non-essential difference, a difference that is abstract and formal, not grounded in the essence of the object being studied. In mathematics, differences between objects are measured and quantified but do not engage with the deeper, qualitative nature of these objects. While magnitude allows for precision and clarity in mathematical reasoning, it fails to address the richer, more complex differences that arise in philosophy or in the lived experience of the world. Magnitude is a superficial, non-essential difference that can be measured, but it does not capture the essence or the internal transformation of objects. Mathematics, therefore, operates on a plane of abstraction where the focus is on what can be precisely quantified, rather than on what is essential, dynamic, and immanent in the real world.

Although it is the concept that divides space into its dimensions and determines their connections and relations, mathematics abstracts from this. In the process of mathematical reasoning, space is treated as a set of measurable quantities, and its dimensions—whether one-dimensional, two-dimensional, or three-dimensional—are abstracted and analyzed separately. The concept, which underlies the structure of space and gives rise to its dimensionality, encompasses not only the measurement of distance or area but also the qualitative relations and interconnections between the various elements of space. It is through the concept that space is understood as a dynamic, interconnected whole, where dimensions and their relations are not merely independent but coalesce into a unified system. However, mathematics, in its focus on magnitude and measurable quantities, abstracts from these deeper conceptual relations. It isolates each dimension and its properties for analysis, leaving aside the more intricate, conceptual interconnections that give space its full, dynamic character.

For example, it does not consider the relation of the line to the plane. In mathematical treatments, a line is typically considered in isolation, defined by its length and direction, and a plane is treated as a flat, two-dimensional surface. The relationship between the line and the plane—how a line may be inscribed within a plane or how they interact in a more conceptual or geometric sense—is not typically explored in the same depth. Mathematics focuses on defining these elements separately, measuring their properties, and establishing their relations through abstract formulas and constructions. The inherent conceptual interconnections that exist between these objects—such as the way in which a line might define the edges of a plane or how the intersection of lines creates geometric relationships—are often sidelined in favor of precise, quantitative analysis. This abstraction from the relational aspect of the concept is a hallmark of mathematical practice, where the emphasis is on the isolation of elements for the sake of clarity and definiteness.

Even when it compares the diameter of a circle to its circumference, it encounters their incommensurability—an infinite relation of the concept that escapes its determinations. One of the most famous instances of this abstraction occurs when mathematics compares the diameter of a circle to its circumference. The ratio of these two quantities—the constant π—reveals an inherent incommensurability: the relationship between the two is infinite and cannot be expressed as a finite, rational number. This infinite relation, which is a direct consequence of the conceptual nature of the circle, eludes the finite determinations of mathematical formulas. While mathematics can approximate this ratio to an incredibly high degree of accuracy, it cannot fully capture the infinite, conceptual nature of the relationship. The very concept of incommensurability points to a deeper, philosophical understanding of reality that is beyond the reach of pure mathematical abstraction. The mathematical system is not equipped to handle this infinite relational quality; it is concerned only with quantifiable aspects, and as such, it leaves the richer, more infinite nature of the concept unaddressed.

Immanent or so-called pure mathematics does not address time as time in contrast to space as a second material for its consideration. Pure mathematics, in its most abstract form, operates within the realm of spatial and numerical relations, focusing exclusively on magnitude, structure, and mathematical properties that are independent of physical or temporal considerations. In pure mathematics, time does not have a specific role; it is treated neither as a distinct concept nor as an essential factor in the formulation of mathematical truths. The structures explored in pure mathematics, such as geometric forms, algebraic equations, or number theory, are abstract entities that exist outside the context of the dynamic, changing world. The objects and relations of pure mathematics are timeless in the sense that they do not depend on the unfolding of events or the progression of time. Instead, they are considered in their static, conceptual purity, where the focus is on universal principles and relationships that exist independently of time or material conditions. Space, as treated in pure mathematics, is similarly abstracted and disconnected from its real-world existence.

Applied mathematics does deal with time, as well as with motion and other real phenomena, but it derives its synthetic propositions—those concerning their relationships determined by their concepts—from experience and merely applies its formulas to these presuppositions. Unlike pure mathematics, applied mathematics is concerned with the practical, real-world application of mathematical principles to phenomena that exist in time and motion. Applied mathematics engages directly with temporal processes—such as changes in position, velocity, or other dynamic factors—and seeks to describe, quantify, and predict real phenomena. However, even in this context, the principles of applied mathematics do not arise directly from the nature of time itself but are based on the presupposition that time, motion, and other real phenomena can be modeled and represented by mathematical concepts. Applied mathematics uses formulas, equations, and models derived from abstract mathematical principles to represent temporal and physical relationships, but the synthetic propositions it generates are built on prior empirical observations and assumptions. These propositions, while useful for making predictions and understanding real-world phenomena, are still derived from abstract concepts that are applied to specific instances of time and motion. They do not emerge organically from an understanding of time itself but are adaptations of mathematical principles to the physical world.

Thus, while applied mathematics does engage with the concept of time, it remains in the realm of abstraction by taking time as a given factor that is to be measured and applied, rather than explored as an intrinsic, self-evolving concept. The true nature of time—its dialectical and dynamic unfolding—remains outside the scope of mathematics, which is more concerned with representing time in a static, measurable form. In this way, applied mathematics, like its pure counterpart, remains limited by its inability to fully capture the dynamic, temporal nature of reality as it unfolds.

The fact that the so-called proofs of such propositions—such as those regarding the equilibrium of the lever or the relation of space and time in falling motion—are given and accepted as proofs is itself evidence of how great the need for proof in cognition is. In mathematical and scientific inquiry, the need for proof is paramount. Proofs serve as the foundation of knowledge, providing certainty and validity to claims. However, the very fact that some propositions, such as those related to physical phenomena like the equilibrium of the lever or the relationship between space and time in falling motion, are treated as if they are fully proven despite not possessing genuine, intrinsic proof, reveals the profound human desire for certainty and closure. In such cases, the “proofs” presented are not true demonstrations of the underlying principles but are instead forms of reasoning or representations that give the appearance of validation. This need for proof, even in the absence of true, internally coherent demonstrations, highlights the human tendency to seek comfort in certainty—an inclination that overlooks the deeper, more complex nature of knowledge.

When no true proof is available, even the empty semblance of one is valued, providing a sense of satisfaction. In the absence of a genuine, internal proof that stems directly from the nature of the object being studied, even superficial or incomplete proofs can provide a sense of satisfaction. The appearance of certainty—whether through approximate reasoning, constructed formulas, or accepted conventions—often satisfies the desire for closure, even when the underlying foundations remain uncertain or incomplete. This semblance of proof can be seen in many areas of mathematics and physics, where assumptions, approximations, or idealized models are presented as though they fully account for the complexity of the phenomena being studied. The satisfaction derived from these “proofs” stems from the human need for coherence and finality in our understanding of the world, even when the true, underlying nature of reality is more fluid, complex, and elusive than such simplified proofs would suggest.

A critique of such “proofs” would be both remarkable and instructive, serving to cleanse mathematics of this false embellishment, to reveal its limits, and to demonstrate the necessity of another form of knowledge. A critical examination of these so-called proofs, particularly those that rely on assumptions or incomplete reasoning, would serve to expose the limitations of mathematical and scientific models. Such a critique would not only challenge the validity of these proofs but also encourage a deeper reflection on the nature of knowledge itself. By highlighting the false embellishments that often accompany mathematical and scientific claims, this critique would reveal how easily we fall into the trap of mistaking appearances for truth, and how insufficient many of our proofs are when held to the light of rigorous philosophical inquiry. Ultimately, this process of critique would show the necessity of a different form of knowledge—one that does not rely on the superficial certainty of proofs but seeks to engage with the deeper, more complex, and often contradictory nature of reality. Such knowledge would not be content with simplified models or idealized representations but would seek a more comprehensive understanding that embraces complexity, nuance, and the dialectical nature of truth.

As for time, which one might think should serve as the counterpart to space and provide the material for another branch of pure mathematics, it is the very existence of the concept itself. In abstract thought, time seems to stand as the natural counterpart to space, potentially providing the foundation for an extension of mathematical reasoning beyond spatial dimensions. One might expect that time, like space, could be subjected to the rigid structures of pure mathematics, forming the basis for a formal system that would quantify and measure its passage, relationships, and dynamics. However, time is not merely a concept to be treated as another measurable quantity within a mathematical framework. It is, in fact, the very existence of the concept itself—a dynamic, living, unfolding process that transcends static definitions. Unlike space, which can be abstracted and reduced to formal dimensions and magnitudes, time inherently involves change, movement, and the passage from one moment to the next, all of which are outside the reach of purely formal reasoning. Time is not simply another dimension or measurable quantity; it is the very fabric of becoming, of transformation, and of existential unfolding.

The principle of magnitude—the conceptless difference—and the principle of equality—the abstract, lifeless unity—are incapable of engaging with the pure unrest of life and absolute differentiation that time represents. Mathematics, in its focus on magnitude and equality, treats concepts as static and fixed, engaging with the measurable and the abstract in a way that excludes the living, evolving essence of time. The principle of magnitude, which deals with conceptless differences that can be quantified and measured, operates within a world of fixed, determinate quantities. It is concerned with relations that can be precisely defined and calculated, where everything is reducible to numerical equivalences and measurable dimensions. However, time, in its pure essence, resists this kind of treatment. It is not a simple difference or a static unit to be measured—it is a continuous flow, a process that involves qualitative change, instability, and the movement from potentiality to actuality. The unrest of life, the ongoing transition from one moment to the next, cannot be captured by the abstract relations of magnitude or equality, which are incapable of addressing the dynamism and unpredictability inherent in the nature of time.

Similarly, the principle of equality, which is grounded in the abstract and lifeless unity of concepts, also falls short in addressing time. While mathematics can measure equality and unity in a static sense, it cannot grapple with the true nature of time, which involves constant differentiation, contradiction, and change. Time is not an abstract unity that can be treated as an equal entity at every moment; it is a living process of becoming, where each moment is distinct, yet connected to the others through an ever-evolving flow. The unity of time is not a lifeless, fixed concept but a dynamic, unfolding reality in which each moment contains the potential for difference and transformation. The abstract, lifeless unity that mathematics relies on is inadequate to capture the richness of time’s ongoing differentiation, and thus time cannot be fully encompassed within the framework of pure mathematics.

This negativity, which constitutes the dynamic and self-moving essence of time, is therefore paralyzed in mathematics, reduced to the concept of the “one” as a second material for this mode of cognition. Time, in its true nature, is defined by its negativity—it is the movement, the flow, and the unfolding of moments, where each moment negates the previous and carries the potential for the next. This negativity is the essence of time’s dynamic, self-moving quality, and it is through this ongoing negation and transformation that time unfolds as a process of becoming. However, in the realm of mathematics, this dynamic nature of time is paralyzed, as it is reduced to a static concept, such as the “one,” which serves as an abstract unit in mathematical operations. The “one” is treated as a fixed, indivisible unit, a mere placeholder or starting point for the mathematical system. In this way, the true essence of time—its continuous unfolding, its inherent change, and its self-moving quality—is lost in the process, as it is captured only as a static quantity, disconnected from the living process that it represents.

Mathematics thus diminishes the self-moving to a static and indifferent, external, lifeless content, treating it as a neutral subject for its operations. Where time should be seen as a force of change and differentiation, it is instead relegated to a neutral, lifeless form, reduced to an object of measurement and manipulation. Mathematics abstracts from time the very qualities that make it dynamic and alive, focusing instead on quantifying it in terms of static units and numbers. The flow of time, with its continuous movement and transformation, is ignored in favor of treating it as a mere backdrop against which mathematical operations occur. In this process, time becomes just another material for mathematical manipulation, devoid of its inherent vitality and self-movement. The dynamic quality of time is thus replaced with a fixed, abstract representation that can be operated upon without any regard for the deeper, qualitative aspects that time embodies in reality.

Philosophy, in contrast, does not consider inessential determinations but rather those insofar as they are essential. Unlike mathematics, which is primarily concerned with abstract quantities and static relations, philosophy focuses on the deeper, more intrinsic aspects of reality—those determinations that shape the essence of things. Philosophy is not content with isolated, superficial facts or formal operations but seeks to engage with the core, essential truths that define existence. It addresses the fundamental nature of things, understanding them not in terms of their external properties or abstract relations, but as they truly are in their essence. In this way, philosophy delves into the qualitative, dynamic aspects of reality that cannot be reduced to mere measurements or isolated truths. Its goal is to grasp the deeper meanings and essential connections that underpin the apparent diversity and complexity of the world.

Its element and content are not the abstract or unreal but the real—what posits itself and lives within itself, existence in its concept. Philosophy is concerned with the real, but not the surface-level reality that is presented to us in everyday experience. It engages with the reality that reveals itself through the dialectical movement of thought, the reality that posits itself and lives within itself. This self-generating, self-sustaining quality is at the heart of philosophical inquiry. Philosophy does not simply observe reality as it appears but seeks to understand the very processes that bring it into being. It looks at existence not as a collection of isolated phenomena but as a dynamic, self-unfolding totality that is governed by internal principles and laws. The real, in philosophy, is understood not as something static or given but as something that evolves, becomes, and is realized through the movement of its own concepts.

Philosophy engages with the process that generates and traverses its moments, with the entirety of this movement constituting the positive and its truth. The essence of philosophy lies in the process itself—the unfolding movement of concepts, the development of ideas, and the progression through various stages of understanding. Philosophy does not seek isolated truths but understands truth as a dynamic, evolving whole. It is through the process of becoming, of the self-development of concepts and ideas, that philosophy uncovers the positive truth of existence. Each moment in this process is not static but part of an ongoing movement toward greater self-realization. The truth of philosophy is not something final or fixed, but something that emerges from the continuity and progression of thought. It is this movement that constitutes the positive and reveals the true nature of reality, not as a static state but as a dynamic, self-creating process.

This truth, therefore, equally encompasses the negative—what might be called the false, if it were possible to regard it as something separate from which one could abstract. The true is not simply the positive, static, or definitive assertion that stands apart from its opposite; rather, it includes the negative as an integral part of its totality. In traditional thinking, the false is often treated as something distinct, something separate from the true, as if it were an error or misstep that must be discarded or corrected in order to arrive at pure knowledge. However, in the philosophical conception of truth, the negative is not a mere absence, defect, or opposition that stands outside the true. It is not something to be rejected or abstracted from the whole. The false, understood in this way, is part of the very movement of truth itself, for it represents the dialectical process through which truth is realized. The false is not a static, isolated entity but a moment within the unfolding of truth, contributing to its development and comprehension.

The vanishing aspect is instead to be viewed as essential, not as a fixed determination cut off from the true and left somewhere outside it, nor is the true to be understood as a static, lifeless positive resting on the other side. The notion of vanishing, or negation, must not be seen as something that disappears once it has been overcome, nor should it be treated as a fixed determination that is extraneous to the true. Rather, negation is an essential part of the self-development of truth. It is not something to be left behind or abandoned; it is actively involved in the realization of the true. In the dialectical movement, each moment of negation—each instance of opposition, contradiction, or transformation—becomes part of the very essence of the truth that is coming into being. The true, then, is not something static or lifeless, an unchanging entity that exists in isolation from its contradictions. Instead, it is a dynamic, living process that includes both positive and negative elements, constantly evolving and unfolding. The true is not an endpoint or a resting place but an active, self-creating totality in which the negative plays a crucial, constructive role.

Appearance, as the coming-into-being and passing-away, does not itself come into being or pass away but is rather in itself and constitutes the reality and movement of the life of truth. In philosophical thought, appearance is often seen as the transient, the fluctuating, the ephemeral phenomena that arise and fade in the course of experience. However, appearance is not simply something that exists independently or fleetingly before fading away; it is part of the very process of truth itself. Appearance is not an external, isolated phenomenon but is intrinsically bound to the reality and movement of truth. It is the manifestation of truth as it unfolds and develops, the dynamic unfolding of the real in its various forms. The coming-into-being and passing-away of appearances represent the movement of truth—its dynamic, living process—rather than something separate from it. In this way, appearance is not separate from the essence of truth but is its expression, its ongoing manifestation and transformation in time.

The true is thus the Bacchic revel in which no member is not drunk, yet because every part dissolves as it separates itself, it is equally the transparent and simple calm. The true, in its essence, is not a static, singular entity but a vibrant, dynamic process. The Bacchic revel suggests an overwhelming, ecstatic movement, where everything is involved in the frenzy of activity, consumed by the same passionate force. Every part of this revel is caught up in the movement of becoming, where no member is untouched by the intoxication of the unfolding truth. However, this intense, tumultuous experience is not chaotic; it is not merely disorderly. The revel also has its dissolution—every part dissolves as it separates itself, suggesting that the passionate movement of becoming is, in the end, resolved, integrated, and transcended. As the revel dissolves, it returns to a state of transparency and simplicity, a calm that reflects the underlying unity and clarity of the truth. Thus, the truth is both dynamic and tranquil: it is the ecstatic movement of becoming, but it is also the clear, simple resolution of that movement.

In the flux of this movement, the individual forms of spirit, like determinate thoughts, do not endure; yet they are just as much positive and necessary moments as they are negative and transient. The movement of spirit is inherently dynamic, marked by constant change, transformation, and development. As such, individual forms—whether they are thoughts, concepts, or manifestations of spirit—are not permanent. They arise, serve a particular function, and then dissolve as the movement continues. However, their impermanence does not mean they are insignificant or without value. These individual forms are positive moments in the unfolding of spirit, necessary steps in its evolution and realization. They are not mere fleeting instances without meaning but integral parts of the larger process. Each moment, while transient, is a necessary expression of the whole, contributing to the ongoing development of spirit. Therefore, they embody both a negative quality—transience and dissolution—and a positive one, as they are essential to the unfolding of the greater whole.

In the whole of the movement, considered as repose, what differentiates itself and gains particular existence within it exists as something remembered and preserved, whose being is the knowledge of itself, just as this knowledge is simultaneously its being. When we consider the entirety of this dynamic process as a moment of repose or completion, the individual moments that have passed, while they no longer endure in their original form, continue to exist within the larger unity of the movement. These moments are not lost but are preserved, remembered, and integrated into the whole. Their being is not merely the existence they had in their particular, transient form; their being is now defined by the knowledge of themselves within the context of the entire process. This self-knowledge is not separate from their being; it is the very essence of their continued existence. The knowledge that each moment of spirit is self-aware, remembered, and integrated into the broader movement of spirit gives it an enduring existence, even as it passes away. Thus, the knowledge of these forms is not just an external recognition but an internal aspect of their continued being, as the movement of spirit carries forward each moment in its dialectical progression.

Regarding the method of this movement or of science, it might seem necessary to provide further elaboration in advance. One might expect that the method of science—how knowledge unfolds, progresses, and reveals truth—requires additional clarification or a detailed preliminary explanation. It is natural to seek a step-by-step account of the method, to understand the process through which knowledge develops and becomes scientific. Yet, the method is not something that can be fully grasped by abstracting it in isolation or treating it as an external, separate entity. It must be understood within the context of the movement itself, as it is intrinsic to the very nature of science and knowledge. In fact, the true nature of the method cannot be separated from the content it serves, for the method is bound to the essence of the knowledge it facilitates.

However, its concept has already been indicated in what has been said, and its full exposition belongs to logic—or, rather, it is logic itself. The concept of the method has already been suggested through the earlier discussion, as it is an inherent part of the process of understanding and reasoning. The method is not a fixed set of procedural steps but is rooted in the concept of the process itself—the movement of thought that generates and organizes knowledge. It is not something that can be abstracted from its content, for the method unfolds as the very structure of knowledge itself. To fully understand the method of science, we must recognize that it is not merely an external tool or technique but a reflection of the essential structure of the whole process. This full understanding belongs to logic because logic deals with the formal structure of thought—the principles and relationships that govern the movement of ideas. In this sense, the method of science is logic itself, as it is through logical principles that knowledge advances, distinguishes itself, and achieves its proper form.

For the method is nothing other than the structure of the whole, articulated in its pure essence. The method of science is not a separate, auxiliary aspect of knowledge; it is the very articulation of the knowledge itself. It is the process through which the whole system of understanding is organized, developed, and revealed. The method is the expression of the essential structure of knowledge, where each moment of understanding is connected and ordered according to the principles of logic. In its purest form, the method is the manifestation of the whole concept of knowledge—the underlying unity that ties together all aspects of thought and reality. It is not an isolated technique but an integral part of the dialectical movement of truth, where the method unfolds as the structure that allows knowledge to reach its full realization.

We must, however, be aware that the prevailing system of ideas regarding what constitutes philosophical method belongs to an outdated intellectual framework. The current conception of the philosophical method—one that is often still entrenched in contemporary thought—belongs to a historical system that has largely outlived its utility. Philosophical inquiry has traditionally been modeled after the scientific methods derived from mathematics, which rely on a rigid structure of explanations, divisions, axioms, sequences of theorems, proofs, principles, and deductions. This framework was once seen as the ideal way to approach knowledge and understanding, yet it has become increasingly apparent that such a method is ill-suited to the complexities and nuances of philosophical inquiry. This is not to suggest that the old methods were without merit, but rather that they are no longer sufficient for addressing the deeper, more dynamic nature of philosophical questions.

If this statement seems pretentious or revolutionary—a tone I deliberately avoid—it is worth noting that the scientific model borrowed from mathematics, with its reliance on explanations, divisions, axioms, sequences of theorems and their proofs, principles, and deductions, is already, even in common opinion, largely obsolete. Adopting this method—so familiar to those who approach philosophy through the lens of mathematics or the natural sciences—no longer serves the evolving needs of philosophical thought. Many thinkers, even if they have not fully articulated its inadequacy, have moved away from this model. Even in more conventional or academic circles, the rigid mathematical method is seldom used or, when it is invoked, often criticized. Its primary appeal—the illusion of precision and certainty—is no longer a sufficient justification, given the increasing complexity of philosophical questions that do not lend themselves easily to such reductionist treatments.

Even where its inadequacy is not explicitly recognized, it is seldom or never used and, if not outright disapproved of, is at least not esteemed. In philosophical practice today, the reliance on the method borrowed from mathematics is, at best, regarded with indifference and, at worst, dismissed outright. Even those who do not overtly reject it often find it insufficient for the demands of contemporary philosophy. The quest for abstract certainty, which was once a hallmark of intellectual rigor, now appears increasingly out of place in a field that is better suited to exploring the fluid, evolving, and interconnected nature of ideas. The tradition of breaking down complex concepts into discrete, measurable components—demanding rigorous, linear proof—may still be useful in certain scientific or mathematical contexts, but it no longer holds the same relevance or esteem in philosophical inquiry. Philosophical method, if it is to advance, must move beyond this outdated structure and embrace a more flexible, holistic, and dialectical approach that better reflects the nature of philosophical thought and the complexity of human understanding.

We must adopt the prejudice that what is excellent becomes established in use and gains favor. It is an unfortunate truth that ideas or methods often gain widespread acceptance not necessarily because they are the best or most suited to their purpose, but because they are familiar, comfortable, or have become entrenched in tradition. This phenomenon can be seen across intellectual fields, where established methods or approaches continue to dominate simply due to their historical success or convenience. This bias toward what is already accepted can hinder the development of new methods or deeper understandings that might better serve a given discipline. Nevertheless, it is crucial to recognize that the true test of a method or approach lies in its capacity to reflect the true nature of its subject, not in its historical establishment or familiarity.

Yet it is not difficult to see that the approach of positing a proposition, providing reasons for it, and refuting the opposite proposition with equal reasoning is not the form in which truth can manifest. The traditional method of argumentation—where a proposition is made, supported with reasons, and then countered by opposing arguments—is not the means through which true understanding or insight emerges. This approach operates externally to the content of what is being discussed. It treats truth as something static, to be defended and argued for, rather than something dynamic and self-unfolding. In this method, truth is not allowed to manifest as a living process; instead, it becomes something that must be “proven” or “defended” in a manner that does not engage with its essence. The dynamic, evolving nature of truth—its movement and internal development—is obscured when we reduce it to a back-and-forth of rational argumentation, as if truth were a fixed entity subject to external validation.

Truth is the movement of itself within itself, whereas that method is a mode of knowing external to its content. In contrast to the static, externally imposed form of reasoning, truth, in its true philosophical sense, is the unfolding of itself from within. It is not something to be imposed from the outside through argumentation or reasoning alone but is the result of an internal process, a movement that develops through its own inherent logic. Truth is dynamic and self-sustaining, constantly evolving and revealing itself as part of a greater, interconnected whole. This movement of truth is not something that can be reduced to simple propositions or logical exchanges; it must be understood as the organic, dialectical development of thought and being.

For this reason, it belongs to mathematics, which, as noted, takes the conceptless relation of magnitude as its principle and inert space and the equally inert unit as its subject matter, and it should remain there. The method of logical propositions and counterarguments, along with the static nature of mathematical reasoning, is well suited to the abstract world of numbers, magnitudes, and spatial relations. Mathematics deals with concepts that are fundamentally inert, such as magnitude and unit, which do not possess the same dynamic, self-unfolding nature that truth does in philosophy. The operations of mathematics, with their focus on relations and quantities, are confined to an external, formal structure that is appropriate for their subject matter but inadequate for addressing the deeper, evolving nature of truth. Therefore, the method of propositional reasoning should remain in the domain of mathematics, where it is most appropriate, rather than being applied to the more fluid, dialectical inquiry of philosophy.

It may also persist in a freer, more arbitrary form in common life, in casual conversation or historical instruction, appealing more to curiosity than to knowledge—much like a preface itself. In everyday life, the method of argumentation can still serve its function, especially in more informal or casual contexts, such as conversation or even in historical education, where the goal is more about sparking interest and engaging curiosity than uncovering deep, philosophical knowledge. In these settings, the method of positing and refuting propositions may be acceptable as a tool for exploration, but it does not lead to true, transformative understanding. Much like the preface to a book, which serves as an introduction but does not provide the substance of the work itself, this method can only ever touch the surface of knowledge, appealing to curiosity rather than providing true insight or engagement with the essence of the matter.

In ordinary life, consciousness deals with knowledge, experiences, sensory concreteness, and also with thoughts and principles, all of which are treated as fixed, existing entities or as static being or essence. Everyday consciousness tends to engage with the world in a way that treats knowledge and experience as pre-existing and stable. Sensory experiences, thoughts, and principles are often perceived as fixed facts or truths, unchanging and external to the subject who observes them. This way of thinking takes these elements as given, as though they were solid, immutable entities that exist independently of the consciousness that experiences or thinks them. This perception leads consciousness to regard the world as a collection of static objects or concepts that can be grasped, defined, and understood in a fixed manner, as if each moment of thought or experience were isolated and self-contained. These elements are treated as external objects, rather than as dynamic, unfolding processes that are combined with the consciousness itself.

It either moves along these elements or interrupts their continuity through arbitrary will, treating them as objects for external manipulation. Consciousness often operates by following the flow of these fixed elements, moving through them without reflecting on their underlying movement or interconnectedness. At other times, however, it may act disruptively, imposing its will on these elements, breaking their continuity. This arbitrary interruption is a common feature of everyday thinking, where the mind may latch onto a particular thought or experience and manipulate it according to personal desires or external pressures, without consideration for its organic unfolding or its place within a larger, coherent system. In this mode, consciousness treats these elements—whether sensory experiences or abstract thoughts—as objects to be manipulated or controlled, rather than as parts of a living, evolving process that is interconnected with the rest of reality.

It reduces them to some certainty, even if only to the feeling of the moment, and finds satisfaction when its conviction reaches a familiar point of rest. In this state, consciousness often seeks certainty, a finality that can give it comfort and assurance. Whether through knowledge, sensory certainty, or a feeling in the moment, consciousness reduces its experiences and thoughts to a sense of fixed truth, an anchor to hold onto. Even if this certainty is fleeting or momentary, it provides a sense of satisfaction, as if the mind has finally arrived at a point of rest. It is content to hold onto familiar convictions or experiences that provide a sense of stability, even if these certainties are superficial or temporary. The satisfaction comes from the closure or finality of these moments, where the restless movement of thought or experience is momentarily stilled.

However, when the necessity of the concept banishes both the looser flow of conversational reasoning and the rigid structure of scientific formalism, it has already been noted above that this gap should not be filled by the unmethodical approach of intuition, enthusiasm, or the arbitrariness of prophetic speech. The necessity of the concept calls for a more disciplined, rigorous engagement with truth—one that transcends the limitations of both casual, everyday reasoning and the overly structured, formalistic approaches of traditional science. In this context, the flow of ordinary conversation often fails to meet the demands of rigorous thought, as it tends to rely on subjective impressions, informal associations, and unexamined assumptions. Similarly, scientific formalism, while offering a system of precise, logical relationships, can become mechanical and disconnected from the living, evolving nature of truth. Thus, the true method of reasoning demands more than just a casual flow of thought or the rigid application of formal systems; it requires the active engagement of the concept, where the understanding unfolds and develops dynamically, in accordance with its own inner necessity.

It is crucial to recognize that this gap—created when both conversational reasoning and scientific formalism are set aside—should not be filled by approaches that lack methodical rigor. These approaches—intuition, enthusiasm, or the arbitrariness of prophetic speech—are not adequate substitutes for a genuine method of reasoning. Intuition may provide fleeting insights, but it cannot serve as a reliable foundation for philosophical knowledge, as it is often subjective and unexamined. Similarly, enthusiasm, though it may inspire, lacks the depth of reflection required for systematic knowledge. Prophetic speech, while it may offer powerful visions, often bypasses the necessary methodical process of reasoning and reflection, relying instead on ungrounded certainty or divine inspiration. These approaches, although they may seem compelling, do not engage with the rigorous, dialectical unfolding of concepts that is central to true philosophical inquiry.

Such approaches disdain not only that particular form of scientific rigor but scientificity in general. The disdain for scientific rigor in these unmethodical approaches is not simply a rejection of a specific methodology but a broader dismissal of scientific inquiry itself. By bypassing the need for logical consistency and systematic development, intuition, enthusiasm, and prophetic speech undermine the very essence of scientific thinking, which is rooted in method, reason, and the unfolding of truth through conceptual development. They reduce knowledge to arbitrary, subjective experiences that cannot provide the objective clarity and necessity required by true science. Thus, in rejecting the methodical rigor of science, these unmethodical approaches ultimately fail to meet the demands of genuine philosophical inquiry, which seeks a deeper, more integrated understanding of truth.

Likewise, after Kant’s triplicity—initially rediscovered through instinct, though still lifeless and uncomprehended—has been elevated to its absolute significance, establishing the true form alongside its true content and thereby bringing forth the concept of science, it should not be regarded as scientific to misuse this form by reducing it to a lifeless schema or mere schematic framework, thereby degrading the scientific organization into a table of categories. Kant’s tripartite system, which was originally grasped in a rudimentary, instinctual manner, marks a pivotal point in the development of philosophical thought. As it becomes elevated to its absolute significance, it reveals not just a theoretical framework but a deeper, more profound structure that reflects the dynamic nature of knowledge and its conceptual organization. This elevation allows the true form of the system to align with its true content, whereby both the structure and substance of science are intertwined in a way that captures the full essence of knowledge. In this way, Kant’s categories are no longer just abstract classifications but become part of a larger, living system of science, a system that reflects the process of conceptual development.

However, it is crucial to recognize that this scientific system and its structure should not be misused or trivialized by reducing it to a mere lifeless schema. A schematic framework, while helpful in organizing ideas, does not capture the dynamic and evolving nature of knowledge itself. If the system is reduced to a static table of categories—an unchanging list of abstractions—it loses its vitality and becomes disconnected from the true movement of thought. The structure of science is not merely a set of predetermined, fixed categories, but a living, evolving system in which the concepts develop and interrelate dynamically, in accordance with their internal logic. To treat the categories merely as abstract, fixed entities is to misunderstand their role and significance. Such an approach reduces science to a mechanical arrangement of concepts, devoid of the conceptual interrelations and dialectical movement that make it a true representation of knowledge.

By degrading the scientific organization into a table of categories, we fail to appreciate the richness and depth of the system as it was intended to function. Science, in its true form, is not simply a tool for classification, but a method for understanding the unfolding of truth, where concepts are not static but evolve and develop over time. The categories are not isolated units but moments within the broader, interconnected flow of knowledge. To reduce them to a lifeless schema is to strip them of their essential role in the development of scientific thought, turning them into mere labels rather than dynamic principles that drive the unfolding of understanding.

This formalism, previously discussed in general terms and now examined more specifically, believes it has comprehended and expressed the nature and life of a shape merely by assigning it a predicated determination from the schema—whether it be subjectivity, objectivity, magnetism, electricity, contraction, expansion, the East or West, and so on. In this formalist approach, the essence of an object or concept is thought to be fully understood and articulated by applying a predetermined set of categories or attributes to it. These categories—whether they are abstract philosophical concepts like subjectivity or objectivity, or more concrete scientific concepts like magnetism, electricity, or even directional terms like East and West—are imposed onto the object without necessarily engaging with its intrinsic nature. The belief here is that by labeling or classifying the object within a given schema, its nature is somehow revealed or captured. This method treats objects or concepts as mere placeholders for categories, reducing their richness and complexity to simple, predicative terms that can be applied to any number of subjects.

Such determinations can multiply endlessly, as each determination or shape can, in turn, be used as the form or moment of the schema for the others, with each reciprocating the favor. The nature of this formalism allows for an infinite expansion of categories. One term or concept, once assigned to an object, can then serve as the basis for assigning new categories to other objects, generating an endless web of reciprocal relationships. For example, once an object is labeled as “magnetic,” the idea of magnetism can then be used to describe other phenomena, creating a network of interrelated concepts. This recursive process can continue indefinitely, as the categories themselves multiply and intermingle, each serving as both a determination of an object and a new foundation for further classifications. However, this endless proliferation of categories and relationships does not necessarily bring us closer to understanding the true nature of the objects themselves.

This circular reciprocity provides no real insight into the matter itself—neither into what one thing nor the other truly is. Despite the apparent depth or complexity of this ever-expanding web of categories, it ultimately fails to provide any genuine understanding of the objects it purports to describe. Each object is reduced to a set of attributes or relations, each of which can be endlessly interchanged and applied, but none of which reveals the true, underlying essence of the object. The essence of a thing is not found in the endless rotation of predicative labels, nor in the relational web that emerges from them. Rather, true understanding comes from engaging with the object in its full, living, dynamic context, not simply through the application of abstract categories that merely describe its external features. This formalism, by reducing things to mere categories and relationships, bypasses the deeper, more complex nature of reality, leaving the true substance of the objects it investigates obscured behind a veil of empty labels.

In this approach, sensory determinations from common intuition are incorporated, ostensibly to signify something beyond their literal meaning. In the formalist or reductionist approach, sensory experiences—those raw, immediate impressions derived from common intuition—are often utilized to convey abstract or complex ideas. These sensory determinations are taken from everyday experience, such as the perception of strength and weakness, expansion and contraction, or other physical phenomena, and are assumed to carry meanings beyond their immediate, tangible sense. While these sensory concepts may offer a useful shorthand or reference, their use in a philosophical or metaphysical context risks oversimplifying the deeper, more intricate nature of the phenomena they aim to represent. Rather than engaging with the full complexity of these ideas, they are reduced to mere symbols or metaphors that are expected to stand for much broader, more abstract concepts, without regard to the nuances of their original, sensory meanings.

At the same time, significant concepts—such as subject, object, substance, cause, universality, and so on—are used as uncritically and indiscriminately as common ideas like strength and weakness, expansion and contraction. In this process, key philosophical concepts—those that should signify profound truths about reality, experience, and knowledge—are treated in the same manner as simple, everyday ideas. Terms such as subject, object, substance, cause, and universality, which are central to metaphysical inquiry, are often used without critical examination or careful differentiation, just as common ideas like strength, weakness, expansion, or contraction are casually applied. These crucial concepts, which demand deep reflection and precise usage, are thus subjected to the same treatment as more mundane or physical descriptions, losing their philosophical depth and significance in the process. The richness and complexity inherent in these terms are obscured by their arbitrary or superficial application.

As a result, this metaphysics is as unscientific as these sensory representations. The careless and uncritical application of both sensory terms and significant philosophical concepts results in a form of metaphysics that is devoid of scientific rigor. Just as the sensory concepts of strength, weakness, expansion, and contraction are limited by their immediate, unexamined associations, so too are the more profound metaphysical concepts reduced to empty abstractions. This approach fails to engage with the true nature of the concepts it uses, treating them as mere placeholders rather than fully developed, dialectical ideas. In doing so, it undermines the scientific and philosophical integrity of the inquiry. The metaphysical system, instead of advancing understanding, becomes an unscientific amalgamation of terms that only appear to explain, without offering any real insight into the nature of reality. The result is a shallow, mechanical understanding that lacks the depth and rigor necessary for genuine scientific or philosophical inquiry.

Instead of the inner life and self-movement of its existence, such a formalism expresses a simple determination derived from intuition—that is, sensory knowledge—based on a superficial analogy, calling this external and hollow application of a formula “construction.” The approach of formalism in this context ignores the dynamic, internal processes that define the true essence of a concept or system. Instead, it reduces these processes to static, predetermined determinations derived from sensory experience—knowledge based on external, superficial appearances. The so-called “construction” that arises from this formalism is nothing more than a mechanical application of abstract formulas, applied without engaging with the deeper, living essence of the matter itself. The formula may be constructed, but it is hollow, devoid of the substance that would imbue it with real meaning. This process relies on a superficial analogy, drawing upon external cues that fail to reflect the true, self-moving nature of the concept or phenomenon it seeks to explain. What passes for “construction” in this framework is, in reality, a shallow imitation of true conceptual development—an exercise in mechanical manipulation rather than an organic, dialectical unfolding of thought.

This formalism operates in much the same way as any other reductive system. It follows a pattern common to reductive systems, where complex, multifaceted phenomena are simplified into a set of rigid, manageable components. These components are often treated as isolated and self-contained, with their richness and complexity disregarded in favor of simplification. Reductive systems seek to break down intricate ideas into their smallest, most basic elements, but in doing so, they strip away the interconnectedness, depth, and dynamism that are essential to fully understanding the phenomenon at hand. By reducing the whole to a series of static, isolated components, formalism and similar reductive methods miss the organic and dialectical nature of knowledge, treating it as something mechanical rather than alive and evolving.

How dull must a mind be that, within a quarter-hour, cannot grasp the theory that there are asthenic, sthenic, and indirect asthenic illnesses and corresponding treatment plans? The critique here is not just aimed at the simplicity of the system, but at the failure to see that real understanding requires more than rote memorization or formulaic application. The idea that a mind could quickly grasp the theory of illness classifications and their treatments within such a short time frame points to the shallowness of such understanding. In this model, theory is reduced to a series of easily digestible categories that can be memorized and regurgitated without engaging with the deeper connections and dynamics at play. The practitioner is not required to understand the nuances of the illness or the interconnectedness of symptoms, causes, and treatments; instead, they are presented with an externally imposed structure that is quickly assimilated. This reductionist approach may appear efficient, but it fails to cultivate genuine understanding or the ability to apply knowledge in a meaningful, dynamic way.

Such instruction was once deemed sufficient to turn a routine practitioner into a theoretical physician in a short span of time. In times past, such a reductive approach was often regarded as sufficient for transforming someone into an expert in a given field—whether medicine, philosophy, or any other discipline. By simply mastering a set of rules, categories, or formulas, a practitioner could quickly be elevated to a position of theoretical authority. However, this method overlooks the complexity of true expertise, which involves not just the memorization of facts or categories, but a deep, reflective engagement with the material, an understanding of its inner dynamics, and the ability to navigate its complexities. True mastery requires more than just the acquisition of a fixed body of knowledge; it requires the capacity to engage with knowledge as a living, evolving process—something that cannot be reduced to simple formulas or static categories.

When the formalism of so-called natural philosophy teaches, for example, that understanding is electricity, that an animal is nitrogen, or that these phenomena correspond to the South or the North, whether expressed as crudely as here or mixed with more sophisticated terminology, one might marvel at the apparent profundity and the power of such an approach. This method, at first glance, may appear to possess a certain intellectual grandeur, as it draws connections between seemingly unrelated concepts and phenomena. The idea that understanding can be reduced to electricity or that an animal can be equated with nitrogen seems to promise a revolutionary simplification of complex processes, offering a seductive allure of coherence and insight. The same applies to the arbitrary linking of abstract phenomena with geographical or directional terms, such as the South or North, which attempts to create a unified picture by imposing spatial or symbolic meaning onto abstract concepts. Whether expressed in simple or more intricate language, such formulations may initially seem impressive, offering the illusion of deep understanding and radical synthesis.

This method links distant ideas and imposes upon static sensory phenomena the semblance of a concept, without ever articulating the concept itself or the true meaning of the sensory representation. In reality, however, this approach merely creates superficial associations, linking disparate ideas in ways that obscure rather than illuminate their true nature. These connections between distant concepts—whether electricity and understanding, or nitrogen and life—are presented as profound, yet they fail to explain the true relationships between these phenomena. They impose upon sensory phenomena an illusory sense of depth by attaching abstract terms or analogies to them, but in doing so, they bypass the deeper, conceptual understanding that should accompany such ideas. The real meaning behind the sensory representations remains unexamined and hidden, as these connections serve only as superficial labels rather than genuine philosophical or scientific explanations.

The uninitiated may fall into admiring awe, imagining profound genius in these connections, or find amusement in the liveliness of these determinations, as they replace abstract concepts with more tangible analogies. Those who are not familiar with the deeper workings of conceptual thought may be easily impressed by the apparent novelty of these associations, mistaking them for insight. The lively energy of such determinations—turning abstract ideas into more concrete or familiar analogies—may seem engaging, providing a sense of clarity and accessibility. However, this sense of clarity is deceptive. The vividness of the analogies, while making the concepts more tangible, obscures the fact that they remain empty of true meaning and fail to engage with the underlying complexity of the phenomena. The beauty and simplicity of these connections can lead people to mistakenly believe they have grasped something profound, when in fact they have only scratched the surface.

They may even congratulate themselves on an intuitive affinity with such “brilliant” work. This seductive simplicity often fosters a sense of intellectual superiority or satisfaction, as individuals believe they have intuitively connected with the underlying genius of the ideas. There is a certain appeal in feeling aligned with what appears to be a revolutionary understanding, especially when the work seems to provide a shortcut to grasping complex issues. However, this intuition is ultimately misplaced, as it reflects admiration for an approach that offers superficial clarity without penetrating the deeper, more intricate realities of the subject matter. The so-called brilliance of such work is ultimately hollow, relying on the allure of easy associations rather than the rigorous and meaningful articulation of true concepts.

The trick of this wisdom is as easily learned as it is applied. The allure of this approach is that it can be quickly grasped and effortlessly put into practice. The method appears simple and straightforward, offering a false sense of depth and insight through its seemingly clever connections and associations. Once learned, it provides a tool for rapid and easy application, allowing individuals to mimic the appearance of understanding without genuinely engaging with the complexities of the subject matter. However, the ease with which it is learned and the apparent immediacy of its results ultimately make it superficial and unfulfilling. What initially seems like a novel and useful technique quickly becomes tedious once the mechanism behind it is understood.

However, once its mechanism is understood, its repetition becomes as unbearable as the repetition of a once-revealed sleight of hand. Once the secret of this trick is revealed, the illusion disappears, and the once impressive artifice loses its charm. What once seemed clever and profound becomes an empty display, devoid of substance. Repetition of this method—like watching the same magic trick after the secret is known—becomes monotonous and tiresome. The surface-level brilliance fades, and the viewer is left with a sense of frustration, as they can now see through the facade. What once appeared as a skillful display of knowledge or insight becomes a mere repetition of empty gestures that no longer hold any true intellectual value.

The instrument of this monotonous formalism is no harder to wield than a painter’s palette with only two colors—say, red and green. The method behind this formalism is as simple and predictable as the tools used to apply it. It is as if one were given a painter’s palette containing only two colors, red and green. With such a limited palette, the painter can only produce a narrow range of images—one color used to depict a historical scene, the other for a landscape. While each image may appear distinct on the surface, the underlying method remains rigid and unvaried. The painter is constrained by their limited tools, and the resulting artworks, despite their surface differences, are ultimately the product of a repetitive, unimaginative process. Similarly, the formalism in question uses a limited set of categories or associations to apply to all subjects, regardless of their complexity, reducing everything to a simplistic framework that can be applied mechanically, without engaging with the unique nature of each individual phenomenon.

It would be hard to say which is greater: the complacency with which everything in heaven, on earth, and below the earth is painted over with this meager palette, or the arrogance regarding the excellence of this universal tool. There is a profound satisfaction, even pride, in the way this simplistic method is applied to every facet of existence. Whether celestial, earthly, or subterranean, all things are treated as if they can be adequately represented by the same basic tools, as if all of reality can be captured within the narrow confines of this limited framework. There is a complacency in the assumption that such a reductionist approach can encompass the entire universe, but this is coupled with an arrogance, a belief that this tool—however simplistic and limited—is the pinnacle of intellectual achievement. This dual attitude of complacency and arrogance is self-reinforcing, as the more everything is subjected to the same basic schema, the more it is perceived as an accomplishment, and the more the system appears to justify itself, despite its inherent shallowness.

Each reinforces the other. The method’s inherent simplicity and lack of depth are masked by the belief in its universal applicability, creating an illusion of comprehensive understanding. The approach, by painting over the complexity and nuance of the world with a thin, uniform coat, fosters the illusion that this simplicity is both sufficient and superior. The more it is applied, the more it seems to confirm its own validity, thus perpetuating its dominance. This circular process prevents deeper engagement with the true nature of the subject, as the mind is lulled into accepting superficial connections as profound truths. The more this method is used, the more it seems to “work,” yet it is working only within a severely constrained and narrow view of reality, unable to capture the richness and dynamism of the world it seeks to explain.

What this method produces, by sticking a handful of general schema-determined labels onto every celestial and earthly, natural and spiritual form, is nothing less than a “clear” account of the universe’s organization. The result of this approach is a “clarity” that is illusory at best. By applying broad, generic categories—predetermined by the schema—to all phenomena, this method creates a surface-level order. It does not reveal the true interconnectedness or the intricate unfolding of existence. Instead, it reduces the complexity of the universe to a series of abstract labels that merely categorize without truly explaining. This so-called “clarity” offers an easily digestible representation of the world, presenting the universe’s organization as something simple and neat, when in reality it is far more intricate and multifaceted than such a scheme allows.

However, this “clarity” resembles a diagram with labels stuck onto a skeleton or rows of labeled jars in a spice shop. To further illustrate the emptiness of this clarity, imagine a diagram of the human body where every part is labeled but devoid of substance—no flesh, no organs, no life. Or picture a collection of jars filled with unknown contents, each neatly labeled yet empty of any real significance. The labels may provide a superficial structure, but they fail to convey any real understanding of the living, dynamic nature of the objects they purport to represent. The skeleton, though it may resemble a body in form, lacks the essence of life that gives the body its meaning and function. Likewise, the jars, though labeled, contain nothing but lifeless, inert matter, devoid of any living purpose or essence. This is the flaw of the formalist method—it reduces living, dynamic concepts to static labels, stripping away the essence of what they truly are.

Just as the skeleton lacks flesh and blood, and the jars hide lifeless contents, so too does this approach strip the living essence of its subject. The living, evolving nature of the subject matter is lost in the process of labeling and categorizing. The method’s attempt to simplify and standardize everything results in the erasure of the very qualities that give subjects their meaning and vitality. The approach turns the world into a static collection of labeled entities, stripped of their true complexity, interrelationships, and life. What is lost in this process is the very essence of the things being studied: their dynamic, interconnected, and self-developing nature, which cannot be captured by a mere label or schematic framework.

This approach, when it evolves into the monochromatic “absolute painting,” forsakes even the distinctions of the schema, as these are deemed too reflective, and sinks everything into the emptiness of the Absolute, achieving a formless white of pure identity. As this method progresses, it becomes increasingly reductive and simplistic, ultimately abandoning even the minimal distinctions provided by the schema. In its desire for total unity and coherence, it flattens all differences, erasing the nuances and complexities of the original concepts in favor of a singular, undifferentiated Absolute. This Absolute, in its purest form, is not a vibrant, living whole, but rather a sterile, formless expanse of identity that lacks any specific characteristics or meaningful distinctions. The “absolute painting” becomes a blank canvas, devoid of any substance or depth, presenting a monochromatic view of reality in which all things are collapsed into a singular, indistinguishable unity. This formless white, while it may appear pure and clean, is ultimately empty—a representation of identity that is devoid of the richness and dynamism of true understanding.

This has already been noted above. The critique of this method has already been established, noting how its insistence on absolute unity leads to a loss of meaningful differentiation. In its attempt to transcend particularities and distinctions, this approach ultimately erases the very elements that constitute the depth and substance of the world. The insistence on a pure, undifferentiated Absolute is not a step forward in philosophical understanding, but a retreat into emptiness, where the richness of life and thought is sacrificed for the sake of simplicity and uniformity.

The uniformity of the schema and its lifeless determinations, along with the absolute identity and the transition from one to the other, are equally lifeless modes of thought and equally external forms of cognition. The schema, with its rigid, predetermined categories, offers no genuine engagement with the living nature of thought or existence. It reduces complex ideas and phenomena to static, lifeless determinations that fail to capture the dynamic, evolving essence of reality. The shift from one schema to another, from one absolute identity to another, does not represent a true movement of thought or knowledge. Instead, it is a mechanical transition, devoid of meaning or substance. This approach, in its quest for unity and coherence, bypasses the necessary tension, contradiction, and development that are essential to genuine philosophical inquiry. It substitutes external, formal structures for the true process of thinking, reducing cognition to a series of empty, lifeless forms that do not engage with the true substance of the world.

The excellent cannot escape the fate of being dismembered, stripped of its vitality and spirit, and having its skin appropriated by lifeless knowledge and its vanity. In the process of being reduced to something rigid and formulaic, even the most excellent ideas, works, or concepts are often subjected to dissection and simplification. Their inherent vitality—the dynamic, living quality that makes them powerful and transformative—is drained away in the process. What remains is a hollowed-out shell, stripped of its essence and substance. The very energy and spirit that made it meaningful are lost, as it is captured and commodified by systems of knowledge that seek to control, categorize, and dissect. The brilliance of the idea, work, or concept is overshadowed by the vanity of its external representation, which serves as a mere symbol or reflection rather than the living essence of the original. This reductionist approach, while it may give the appearance of understanding, actually diminishes the very thing it attempts to comprehend, leaving behind only an empty imitation of its former self.

Yet even within this fate lies the recognition of the power it exerts—not necessarily on minds (Geister), but at least on dispositions (Gemüther). Despite this reduction and degradation, there remains an undeniable power in the idea or concept, though it may not manifest in the traditional intellectual sense, where it directly influences minds and leads to deep understanding. Instead, this power is now felt on a more visceral level, affecting the dispositions and emotions (Gemüther) of individuals. Even when an idea or work is drained of its original vitality and reduced to a lifeless form, it still has the ability to resonate with people, to stir emotions, and to influence attitudes and feelings. This emotional or dispositional impact may be less intellectually rigorous, but it is no less powerful. It speaks to the human capacity to connect with the externalized form of the idea, even when the deeper, more profound connection has been lost. In this way, even the most dismembered and dehumanized versions of great ideas or works still exert a force, albeit one that operates through less intellectual and more affective channels.

This fate also reveals the process of bringing it into universality and definiteness of form, in which its completion resides, and which alone makes it possible for this universality to be misused as superficiality. The process of transforming a once-living, dynamic idea into something universal and formally defined brings about its completion in a certain sense. It is in this crystallization, this finalization of the concept, that the idea achieves a clear and definitive shape, making it accessible and communicable to all. Universality, in this context, is not simply the broadening of an idea’s reach, but the moment when it is distilled into a form that can be universally understood and applied. This process of making something universally recognizable gives it a fixed, structured identity, but in doing so, it simultaneously strips away the fluidity and depth of the original concept. The very act of definition, of giving a thing a clear and stable form, often leads to a loss of its dynamic nature, reducing it to a mere symbol or representation of its original, more nuanced meaning.

In this final, universal form, the concept is now fully “realized”—it has been given substance, stability, and coherence. However, this process also lays the groundwork for the concept to be misused, turning it into something superficial. The very completeness that allows the concept to be universally applied also opens the door for it to be misappropriated or trivialized. Once something is reduced to a clear and universally recognized form, it is easily manipulated, stripped of its depth, and used in a way that neglects or distorts its true nature. Its universality, which was initially a mark of its strength and clarity, can become a weakness, as it is now susceptible to becoming a hollow tool, used for superficial purposes or shallow applications. This tension between the completeness of form and the potential for misuse is intrinsic to the very nature of universality. The same definiteness that makes a concept powerful and communicable can also render it vulnerable to oversimplification or distortion.

Science must organize itself solely through the intrinsic life of the concept. The true nature of scientific inquiry cannot be found in external, arbitrary categorizations or formal frameworks; instead, it must emerge from the inner movement of the concept itself. This intrinsic life of the concept is what gives science its vitality and direction. Rather than relying on externally imposed schemas or rigid structures, science must be driven by the self-developing, self-moving essence of the concepts it seeks to understand. These concepts are not static or fixed; they are living, evolving entities that unfold and reveal their true nature through their internal development. Science, in this sense, is not merely a process of applying predefined categories to the world, but of actively engaging with the living, dialectical movement of ideas, allowing them to evolve and shape the understanding of reality.

Within it, the determinateness, which in a formal schema is externally attached to existence, becomes the self-moving soul of the filled content. In traditional formal schemas, determinations are often externally imposed upon objects or phenomena, reducing them to fixed attributes or static categories. These determinations are not intrinsic to the object but are applied from the outside, giving them a sense of finality and completeness that does not reflect the dynamic, evolving nature of reality. In contrast, within the living concept of science, determinateness is not something external or arbitrary but becomes the essential, self-moving force that animates and organizes the content of knowledge. The concept itself is not merely a static label but a dynamic force that shapes and organizes the material it encounters, infusing it with life and meaning. The determinateness of the concept is no longer imposed from the outside but is inherent to the unfolding process, driving the content forward and shaping it from within.

The movement of being consists, on the one hand, in becoming an “other” and thus transforming into its immanent content; on the other hand, it takes this unfolding or its existence back into itself, meaning it reduces itself to a moment and simplifies itself into determinateness. The process of becoming is not a simple, linear progression but involves a dialectical unfolding. On one level, being moves outward, becoming something “other,” transforming into its immanent content. This transformation involves a process of self-realization, where the essence of the concept becomes more fully realized through its engagement with the external world. However, this outward movement is always accompanied by an inward movement, where the unfolding process is also absorbed back into itself, reducing itself to a moment of determinateness. This moment represents a simplified, crystallized version of the concept, where the complexity of the process is captured in a single, clear determination. The concept, in its unfolding, does not lose its complexity but integrates it into a more coherent, determinate form that reflects its inner essence. This dual movement of outward transformation and inward synthesis is at the heart of scientific development, where each stage of understanding is both a progression and a simplification, a complexification and a resolution.

In this movement, negativity acts as differentiation and the positing of existence; in this return into itself, it is the becoming of determinate simplicity. The concept of negativity plays a central role in the dialectical movement of becoming. Negativity, in this context, is not simply the absence or denial of something, but a dynamic, productive force that drives differentiation. It is through this negativity that existence itself is posited—it is the process through which distinctions are made, and the multiplicity of being comes into focus. Negativity allows the concept to unfold and develop, creating the conditions for differentiation and self-expression. At the same time, this negativity does not remain external or merely destructive; it is integrated into the process of returning to itself, where it takes the form of determinate simplicity. In this return, the concept simplifies itself, reducing its complexity into a clear, defined moment that encapsulates its essence. This simplicity is not a loss of meaning or richness but a resolution of the dynamic process that allows the concept to become fully actualized.

In this way, the content does not appear to receive its determinateness from something external, nor to have it imposed upon it. The process of determination is not the result of some external force or arbitrary imposition. Rather than being defined from the outside, the content of the concept finds its determinateness from within itself. This self-determination is at the core of the concept’s development—it is not merely a passive recipient of external labels or categorizations but actively engages in shaping and defining itself. The concept evolves through its own internal logic, and its determinations are the product of its own unfolding, not something imposed by an external system or framework.

Instead, it gives itself its own determinateness, organizing itself into a moment and a place within the whole. The content of the concept, as it unfolds, gives rise to its own determinations. These determinations are not arbitrary but are internally generated through the dialectical process. As the concept moves through its stages of development, it organizes itself into distinct moments, each of which represents a necessary step in its unfolding. These moments are not isolated or disconnected but are part of a larger whole, with each moment playing a crucial role in the realization of the concept as a whole. In this way, the concept is not just a static entity but a living, self-organizing process that structures itself within the larger context of the whole, giving meaning and form to its existence as it unfolds.

The tabular understanding, however, retains for itself the necessity and concept of the content—the concrete, the reality, and the living movement of the matter it organizes. On the surface, this form of understanding seems to grasp the essential need for a structured organization of content. It believes it retains the true concept and essence of the material it addresses, as if it could capture the concrete, real, and dynamic movement of the matter itself. By organizing ideas, facts, or phenomena into a neat, systematic framework—often in the form of a table or schema—it appears to achieve some degree of understanding. This method suggests that by cataloging content and organizing it into easily accessible parts, the true substance and movement of the concept are being properly captured. However, this appearance is deceptive, as the tabular understanding does not genuinely engage with the living, evolving nature of the material it organizes.

Or rather, it does not truly retain it but fails to recognize it. The key issue here is that the tabular approach does not truly retain or preserve the dynamic, self-moving essence of the content. It operates only at the surface level, abstracting away the deeper, living processes that define the true nature of the matter. It organizes concepts and ideas as if they are fixed and static, reducing them to discrete, inert elements that can be neatly categorized and summarized. This reduction neglects the inherent movement and interconnectedness of the material, effectively stripping away the richness and complexity that should inform its understanding. The tabular understanding fails to recognize the deeper nature of what it is dealing with, mistakenly treating the material as something to be simply arranged and labeled, rather than something to be actively engaged with and explored in its unfolding process.

For if it had such insight, it would surely reveal it. If the tabular approach truly understood the deeper nature of the material it seeks to organize, it would not merely present a static list of categories or concepts. Instead, it would reveal the dynamic movement of the content, showing how each part evolves and relates to the whole. The richness and depth of the material would come to life in the organization, reflecting the underlying processes and relationships that give it meaning. True insight would require a deeper engagement with the living, interconnected nature of the material, rather than reducing it to a mere static outline. If the tabular approach had this insight, it would no longer rely on mere categorization or simplification but would embrace the full complexity and dynamism of the content.

It does not even recognize the need for such insight; otherwise, it would abandon its schematizing or, at the very least, not consider it more than a mere table of contents. The tabular understanding does not recognize the necessity for this deeper insight, as it remains satisfied with its mechanical process of organizing and listing. It treats the schema or table as an end in itself, failing to see that it is not the final goal of understanding but merely a preliminary step in the exploration of the content. The method becomes an end in itself, where the process of schematizing and categorizing is mistaken for the achievement of true knowledge. If it were aware of the deeper insight required, it would recognize that its method of schematization is insufficient and would either abandon it or reduce it to a mere framework—like a table of contents—that merely provides structure without engaging with the essence of the material.

It provides only a content summary, but it does not deliver the content itself. Ultimately, the tabular approach only offers a superficial summary of the content, providing an outline or skeleton of the material without revealing its true depth or complexity. The summary may serve a functional purpose, offering a convenient overview or reference, but it fails to deliver the content in its full richness and dynamic unfolding. The living, evolving nature of the material is lost in the process of summarization, leaving behind only a static representation that bears little resemblance to the true nature of the content. True understanding requires more than a summary; it demands an engagement with the material in all its depth and movement, recognizing its interconnectedness and its unfolding process.

When determinateness, such as magnetism, for example, is itself something concrete or real, it nevertheless degenerates into something lifeless when it is merely predicated of another being and not understood as the immanent life of that being—when it is not recognized as having its native and unique self-generation and manifestation within it. Magnetism, in this case, is a specific and tangible property that exists in the world, but its true nature is not captured when it is simply applied or labeled as an attribute of another object. When we say something is “magnetic,” we are often only referring to its external, surface-level property, without engaging with the deeper, internal essence of what magnetism truly is. The force of magnetism is not just an external characteristic that can be assigned to objects at will; it is an inherent, self-generating quality that arises from the deeper, dynamic forces within the object itself. Without recognizing this deeper, immanent nature of magnetism, the concept becomes lifeless—reduced to a mere label or external description, rather than an expression of the object’s internal self-movement and essential reality.

This essential aspect, however, is left to others by formal understanding. Formal understanding, with its focus on categorization, labeling, and external attribution, overlooks the dynamic, internal processes that make concepts like magnetism meaningful. It often reduces complex, living properties to static terms, treating them as attributes that exist only in relation to other beings, without delving into their intrinsic, self-generating nature. The richness and vitality of magnetism as a force that actively shapes and manifests itself within the object is ignored in favor of a shallow, external understanding. Formal understanding leaves the true essence of such concepts to be explored by more dynamic, philosophical, or scientific approaches that seek to uncover the internal logic and self-expression of these phenomena. Without this deeper insight, the true nature of magnetism—and similar concepts—is neglected, and its vital, immanent life remains unacknowledged, leaving behind only an empty abstraction.

Instead of immersing itself in the immanent content of the matter, formal understanding merely surveys the whole from above and remains detached from the particular existence it discusses—in other words, it does not truly see it. Formal understanding operates from a distance, approaching the subject with a detached, often abstract perspective. It takes an aerial view, categorizing and labeling the matter it encounters without engaging with the substance or the living reality of the object itself. This method focuses on creating generalizations or external attributions, often reducing the object to a set of characteristics or categories that exist separately from its internal nature. It fails to enter into the depth of the subject, and thus, it does not truly “see” the object in its full complexity and living essence. The understanding here is superficial, a mere outline or external map, without any true connection to the real, immanent content of the subject it aims to explain.

Scientific knowledge, by contrast, requires surrendering to the life of the object, or what amounts to the same thing, apprehending and articulating its inner necessity. Science, in its truest form, does not simply observe from a distance or impose abstract categories upon the object. Instead, it seeks to enter into the very life of the object, to understand it from within, and to grasp its inner necessity—the underlying forces, structures, and relations that define its existence. This process requires a deep immersion in the object, where the boundaries between subject and object blur, and the mind becomes fully engaged with the internal movement and logic of the material being studied. Scientific knowledge is not a detached, passive observation, but an active participation in the unfolding of the object’s nature, where the scientist surrenders to the object’s own inherent dynamics and allows its inner necessity to emerge and reveal itself.

By immersing itself deeply in its object, it abandons the detached overview, which is merely the reflection of knowledge turning back upon itself from the content. This deeper, more intimate engagement with the object marks a departure from the formal understanding, which remains outside and separate from the matter. Scientific knowledge involves a shift away from seeing the subject from above as an external entity to experiencing it as a living, interconnected whole. The “overview” that formal understanding provides is simply the result of knowledge reflecting upon itself—an abstract, detached process that does not truly engage with the matter at hand. In contrast, science seeks to dissolve this distance, to move beyond mere reflection, and to participate directly in the object’s own unfolding. This is not a passive review of facts but an active process of knowing, where the object is not just observed but deeply understood through its own immanent, necessary movements.

However, while immersed in the matter and advancing within its movement, scientific knowing eventually returns to itself—not until the fulfillment or content withdraws into itself, simplifies into determinateness, reduces itself to one aspect of existence, and transitions into its higher truth. As scientific inquiry delves deeper into the subject matter, engaging fully with its unfolding dynamics, it inevitably reaches a point where the content begins to crystallize. The complexity and richness of the object, which seemed to overflow and resist simple categorization, is gradually distilled into a more focused, determinate form. This process is not about abandoning the richness or depth of the subject, but rather about recognizing its essential moment, the core element that is both a necessary step in its development and a reflection of its higher truth. The object’s various complexities—once scattered and multifaceted—are drawn together into a singular, coherent aspect, allowing the mind to perceive its essence more clearly. This simplification, far from reducing the subject to something impoverished, marks a necessary step in its complete unfolding, bringing clarity and focus to the once opaque or fragmented understanding.

Through this process, the simple, comprehensive whole emerges from the richness in which its reflection seemed to have been lost. Initially, the richness of the subject may appear overwhelming, with its intricacies seeming to scatter the understanding. However, as scientific inquiry advances, this richness is not abandoned but becomes the soil from which a clearer, more comprehensive understanding can emerge. The “reflection” of the subject—its dynamic, ever-changing aspects—might seem elusive or fragmented at first, as it is continually unfolding and evolving. Yet, through sustained engagement, the scientific mind finds that the whole is not only reconcilable but reveals itself as a unified totality, where the complex and diverse elements come together into a cohesive truth. In the end, the seeming multiplicity of the subject resolves itself into a simple, comprehensive whole, which is the ultimate truth of the object—a truth that encompasses all its previous moments and aspects while transcending them into a higher understanding.

In general, as expressed earlier, the substance is in itself subject, and therefore all content is its own reflection into itself. The true nature of substance is not something fixed or static, but something dynamic, living, and self-reflective. Substance, in its essence, is subject—it is not merely a passive, inert entity but an active, self-moving force that continually reflects itself back into itself. This self-reflection is not an external process but one that emerges from within the substance itself, shaping its very existence and content. Every aspect of the content, every manifestation of substance, is in some sense a return to itself, an unfolding of its own inner essence. It is this self-reflective movement that drives the development of substance and allows it to evolve, revealing its true nature through its own internal process.

The persistence or substance of an existence lies in its self-equality, for its inequality with itself would mean its dissolution. The persistence or continuity of any existence is grounded in its self-equality. If an entity were to be in contradiction with itself—if it lacked the internal harmony and consistency that constitutes its essence—it would cease to exist as a coherent, unified whole. The principle of self-equality ensures that the entity remains true to its nature, preserving its identity and coherence over time. This self-equality is the foundation of substance’s persistence; it is what allows it to maintain its existence and endure through change. Without this fundamental unity within itself, the very notion of substance would collapse, for it would no longer be a stable, self-sustaining reality.

This self-equality, however, is pure abstraction, and this abstraction is thought. While the concept of self-equality is essential to the persistence of substance, it is not something that can be directly experienced or observed in its pure form. Rather, it is an abstract principle, a concept that must be grasped through thought. The notion of self-equality, as a condition for the persistence of existence, is not something that exists in the physical world as a tangible object but exists as an idea, a mental construct that reflects the underlying unity of substance. This abstraction—self-equality—is not just a passive idea but is the very essence of thought itself. Thought is the medium through which this abstraction becomes clear, where the mind is able to grasp and articulate the essential unity that underlies all existence. It is through thought that we understand the self-equality of substance, allowing us to comprehend its nature and persistence in the world.

When I say quality, I mean simple determinateness. Quality, in this context, refers to a basic, inherent characteristic that defines and distinguishes one existence from another. It is the simplest form of determinateness, the feature that marks an entity as being what it is, distinct from everything else. Quality represents the essence of what an object or phenomenon is, providing it with its specific nature and identity. Through quality, one existence stands apart from another, with each maintaining its own unique definition. It is this quality that gives each existence its individuality, allowing it to persist in its uniqueness while remaining consistent with itself over time. Quality, in its most fundamental form, is a kind of simplicity—an unadorned determination that defines what a thing is in relation to what it is not.

Through quality, one existence is distinguished from another, or it is an existence in and of itself; it persists through this simplicity with itself. The role of quality is central to the existence of any entity, as it provides the grounds for differentiation. Quality is what allows one existence to be distinct from another, to carve out its place in the world and remain true to its essence. In this sense, quality functions as the defining feature that sustains an entity’s being. It is not a fleeting or contingent characteristic, but something integral to the being itself—its identity is rooted in the quality it possesses. Furthermore, this quality does not merely exist in isolation; it persists through its own simplicity, meaning that the essence of the thing remains constant and self-sustaining through its quality.

However, this makes it essentially thought. While quality might initially seem like a simple, concrete characteristic, it is, in fact, fundamentally tied to the realm of thought. To grasp what something is, to recognize its quality, is an act of intellectual engagement. It is through thought that we apprehend and understand the quality of an object or phenomenon. Quality, therefore, cannot be separated from thought; it exists not just as a material attribute but as something that is conceptualized and understood within the mind. In this sense, quality is not merely an empirical or sensory experience—it is a concept, a mental determination that allows us to recognize and define the nature of existence.

Here it is understood that being is thought, which encompasses the insight that diverges from the ordinary, conceptless talk of the identity of being and thought. The key insight here is that being, in its most fundamental sense, is inherently tied to thought. It is not simply an external, mind-independent reality that exists outside of our conceptualization; rather, being is, in its essence, something that is grasped and articulated through thought. This challenges the more traditional, conceptless view that treats being and thought as separate or identical in an abstract, undifferentiated manner. Instead, it posits that being and thought are inseparably connected, with thought being the means by which being is both understood and realized. This insight moves away from the simplistic or dogmatic understanding of the identity of being and thought, which merely assumes they are the same without recognizing the active role of thought in constituting and revealing being.

Because the persistence of existence is self-equality or pure abstraction, it is also the abstraction of itself from itself—it is its own inequality with itself and its dissolution. The very persistence of existence depends on its self-equality, a state where the essence of a thing remains consistent and true to itself. However, this self-equality is not a static, unchanging condition; it is an abstraction. Existence, in maintaining its persistence, is constantly involved in a process of self-reflection and self-differentiation. It abstracts itself from its own immediacy, becoming something more than just a fixed, unchanging state. In this abstraction, existence acknowledges its own inequality with itself, as it must move and evolve. This inequality is not a contradiction but a necessary condition for the unfolding of being—its movement, change, and development. Through this tension, existence undergoes a kind of internal dissolution, a continual process of becoming, in which its identity is both preserved and transformed.

It is its own inwardness and withdrawal into itself—its becoming. In this dynamic process, existence continually retreats into itself, turning inward to reflect upon its own essence and essence’s development. This withdrawal is not a passive retreat but an active engagement in becoming, an unfolding of potential that allows existence to shape and redefine itself. It is through this inwardness that being realizes its own nature, allowing it to transition from a simple, immediate state to a more complex, self-aware form. Becoming is the manifestation of this internal movement, where being is not simply static and unchanging, but is in a state of constant development, always on the path to becoming something else, something more.

Through this nature of being, and insofar as being has this nature for knowledge, knowledge is not the activity that handles content as something foreign, nor is it reflection away from content back into itself. The nature of being is inherently tied to the process of knowing. Knowledge, in this context, is not a passive reception of external content or a detached observation of an object. It is not simply about treating content as something foreign to the knowing subject, something that exists independently outside of thought. Knowledge, rather, is an active engagement with the object, one that acknowledges the interconnectedness of being and thought. It is not about reflecting back from the content to the knower in a way that maintains a separation between subject and object. Instead, knowledge reflects the immanence of being itself, where knowing and being are co-constitutive. It is an organic, dynamic process in which the knower is involved in the very unfolding of the content, recognizing that content is not merely something to be manipulated externally, but something that unfolds from within the relationship between thought and being. This process of knowledge is not external to the content but arises from within it, drawing the knower into the movement and transformation of being itself.

Science, therefore, is not that form of idealism which, as a new dogmatism of self-certainty, replaced the old dogmatism of assertion. Traditional idealism, in its dogmatic form, often revolves around an unquestioned certainty, asserting that reality is ultimately shaped by the mind or consciousness. This type of idealism tends to replace the earlier dogma of metaphysical assertion—that the world exists independently and is simply something to be accepted with certainty—with a new dogmatic self-certainty, where everything is viewed through the lens of the mind’s capacity to shape reality. However, science, as genuine knowledge, is not simply a system of self-assured ideals or concepts imposed on the world. It does not adopt the posture of a closed, dogmatic framework but engages with the content of the world in a more open, dialectical process, recognizing that truth emerges through the unfolding of concepts and their internal relations. Science is not about reaffirming fixed certainties but engaging in an active, reflective process that allows for the recognition of contradiction and transformation as inherent to reality itself.

Rather, as knowledge observes content retreating into its own inwardness, its activity is both immersed in the content—because it is the immanent self of the content—and simultaneously returned into itself, as it is the pure self-equality in otherness. In contrast to superficial or abstract idealisms, scientific knowledge engages directly with the content of the world, but in a manner that allows it to recognize the internal dynamics and contradictions within that content. Knowledge does not simply project ideas onto the world, but observes the world’s content as it moves, evolves, and reflects inwardly. In this inwardness, knowledge becomes immanent to the content—it is not separate from it, but an active participant in the content’s self-development. Knowledge is immersed in the very self of the content, recognizing that the content’s essence and its unfolding are inseparable from the process of knowing. At the same time, however, knowledge is also a reflective process, returning into itself and recognizing its own role in the development of understanding. In this way, it simultaneously observes the content and reflects upon its own nature as the self-equality of thought engaging with otherness.

Thus, knowledge becomes the cunning (List) that, while seemingly refraining from activity, observes how determinateness and its concrete life—precisely in striving for self-preservation and particular interest—engage in actions that are inherently contradictory, dissolve themselves, and transform into moments of the whole. The process of knowing is not simply an act of external manipulation or control over content. Instead, it is a more subtle, reflective engagement, akin to “cunning”—an intelligence that watches, understands, and allows the inherent contradictions within a phenomenon to reveal themselves. Knowledge observes how the concrete existence of a thing, in its striving for self-preservation and its particular, individual interests, engages in actions that seem to affirm its independence. Yet, this very striving leads to contradictions, as the content is never fully self-sustaining in isolation. Through these contradictions, the content dissolves into itself and transforms, becoming part of a larger whole. Knowledge, in this sense, is not about forcing or imposing a structure on the world, but about understanding how the world, through its own internal contradictions and movements, reveals itself as part of a larger, interconnected system. It is a process of watching how things change, evolve, and integrate into a comprehensive whole, revealing moments of self-transformation that align with the unfolding of truth.

When the significance of understanding (Verstand) was earlier discussed in relation to the self-consciousness of substance, its significance in terms of the determination of substance as being (Seyendes) now becomes clear through what has been said here. In previous discussions, the concept of understanding was introduced as a critical component of how self-consciousness recognizes and engages with the substance of reality. Understanding, in this context, is not a passive reflection but an active engagement with the world, through which substance begins to take form and reveal itself to the conscious mind. The self-consciousness of substance is not just an abstract idea but is, in fact, a process of understanding where substance becomes recognizable, intelligible, and knowable. Now, in the context of being, we can see how this understanding transforms into the actual determination of substance itself, imbuing it with significance and clarity. Being is not merely an abstract concept but a quality—an essence that can be apprehended and understood as a specific, determinate entity.

Being is quality, self-equal determinateness or determinate simplicity—determinate thought. At its core, being is quality; it is the essential characteristic that defines a thing as what it is. It is self-equal, meaning that it remains consistent with itself, maintaining its identity through time and change. Being is also determinateness—it has distinct boundaries and a clear, defined nature. This determinateness is not an external imposition but an immanent property that arises from the very essence of the being. It is determinate thought, meaning that being can be thought of in a precise, conceptual way. The essence of being, in its most fundamental form, is a concept—one that can be grasped and articulated by understanding. It is through this determinate thought that being can be comprehended and integrated into our knowledge, allowing us to move beyond mere sensation or perception into a deeper, more structured form of understanding.

This is the understanding of being. The nature of being, as we have described, is not merely an abstract idea but something that can be apprehended through thought. The understanding of being is the recognition of its essential qualities—its self-equality, its determinateness, and its capacity for conceptual articulation. Being, in this sense, is not just a passive state but an active, conceptual reality that reveals itself through our intellectual engagement. Understanding is the key that unlocks the nature of being, allowing us to move from mere perception to a deeper, more coherent grasp of reality.

Through this, it is Nous, which Anaxagoras was the first to recognize as essence. The concept of Nous, or divine intellect, was introduced by Anaxagoras as the essential principle that orders and shapes the cosmos. For Anaxagoras, Nous was the organizing force behind all existence, providing the structure and intelligibility that gave order to the world. Nous is not just an abstract intellectual concept, but the very essence of being itself—the force that makes being intelligible and meaningful. It is through Nous that being becomes an object of understanding, moving beyond mere existence into something that can be known, grasped, and conceptualized. In this sense, Nous represents the highest form of reality—one that is not only intellectually apprehensible but also the very foundation of all existence and order.

Those who came after him defined the nature of being more determinately as Eidos (or Idea), meaning determinate universality, or kind. Following Anaxagoras, philosophers like Plato further refined the concept of being, moving toward a more determinate and systematic understanding. They identified being not just with an abstract force like Nous, but with a more defined and structured concept: Eidos. Eidos represents the archetype or ideal form, the perfect and unchanging essence that underlies all particular instances. It is determinate universality, meaning that it encompasses all instances of a kind while remaining a singular, coherent idea. Eidos, as an ideal form, transcends individual particulars and provides the framework for understanding the true nature of being as universal and unified. This development marks a shift from a purely intellectual conception of being to one that emphasizes its role as an organized, unchanging principle that governs the multiplicity of existence.

The term kind (Art) may seem too commonplace or insufficient to capture the essence of ideas, such as the beautiful, holy, or eternal, which are currently in vogue. At first glance, the term “kind” might appear too ordinary, too mundane, to fully convey the depth or significance of abstract, transcendent concepts like beauty, holiness, or eternity. These lofty ideas, which are often celebrated in contemporary discourse, seem to require a term imbued with greater philosophical or spiritual weight—something that transcends the commonplace and resonates with a sense of the sublime. “Kind” seems too simple, too grounded in the mundane to encompass these elevated concepts that are thought to capture the highest ideals of human thought and experience.

Yet in truth, the idea expresses neither more nor less than kind. However, upon deeper reflection, it becomes clear that the term “kind” does indeed capture the essence of these concepts, though not in the lofty, abstract manner we often expect. “Kind,” in this context, refers to a determinate and identifiable category—a concept that, while seemingly plain, has the capacity to define and distinguish ideas in a way that does justice to their meaning. The beauty, holiness, and eternity of things are no less specific or determinate for being described as kinds; each of these ideas represents a particular, coherent essence, a specific manifestation of a broader principle. “Kind” expresses the universality and essential determinateness that give these abstract concepts their clarity and substance. It is not a term that diminishes the grandeur of these ideas but one that reveals their concrete nature within a systematic, intelligible framework.

However, we often disdain an expression that clearly designates a concept, preferring another that, perhaps simply because it belongs to a foreign language, envelops the concept in a haze, making it sound more edifying. There is often a preference for terminology that feels more profound or mysterious, especially when it comes from a foreign language, as if the distance from the common vernacular confers a sense of higher truth or sophistication. When a term like “kind” is used to describe something as profound as beauty or holiness, it may seem too plain or pedestrian. So, we seek out more complex or “elevated” language—perhaps drawing from ancient languages like Greek or Latin—that wraps the concept in a veil of mystery, making it seem more lofty and refined. This preference reflects our tendency to equate complexity or foreignness with profundity, valuing terminology that appears less straightforward and more intellectual, even when it may obscure the clarity of the concept itself. In doing so, we risk losing the precision and clarity of the idea, replacing it with an abstraction that may feel more edifying but ultimately clouds our understanding.

In that being is determined as kind, it is simple thought; Nous, as simplicity, is substance. The concept of “kind” (Art) serves as a foundational determination of being, linking it to thought itself. When being is understood as kind, it is not merely a passive existence but an active, conceptual determination. This simple thought—Nous—represents the essence of substance in its most direct and unadorned form. Nous, as simplicity, is not a complex or fragmented idea, but one that encompasses the totality of substance in its purest form. The simplicity of Nous is not a deficiency or absence of complexity, but rather the essential, undivided unity of thought. It is through this simplicity that being achieves substance, for substance is not a mere aggregation of parts but the unity of thought in its purest, simplest form. It is this simplicity that underlies the essence of being, giving it both stability and coherence.

Because of its simplicity or self-equality, it appears as stable and enduring. The simplicity of Nous lends stability to being, making it appear as something enduring and unchanging. In its self-equality, where it is consistent and identical with itself, it gives the impression of permanence and reliability. This self-equality is what allows being to maintain its identity across time, remaining true to its essence. It is this simplicity that makes being feel grounded, substantial, and resistant to the forces of change. In this way, simplicity is often associated with stability, as it creates a coherent and unified whole that can persist without fracturing or dissolving.

However, this self-equality is equally negativity; through this, that stable being transitions into its dissolution. While simplicity gives the appearance of stability, it also contains within itself the principle of negativity—the force of differentiation and change. Self-equality is not an unchanging, static state, but one that encompasses the possibility of transformation. Through this negativity, being is not merely a fixed substance but is subject to dissolution, as it begins to differentiate and evolve. The very stability that arises from its simplicity carries within it the potential for change, and this process of self-differentiation is what drives being to evolve, to break apart, and to become something other. Thus, the stability of being is never absolute; it is always already in motion, moving toward its own dissolution and transformation.

Determinateness at first seems to exist only by relating to something else, and its movement appears as though imposed by an external force. When we first encounter determinateness, it seems to be something that arises only in relation to otherness. The concept of determinate being often appears to be contingent upon an external force or influence that imposes limitations or boundaries upon it. This external relation gives the impression that determinateness is a passive feature, shaped by forces outside of itself, rather than something that arises from its own essence. In this view, the movement of determinateness seems to be the result of external constraints, as if it were merely a reaction to forces acting upon it.

But the fact that it carries its otherness within itself and is self-moving is already contained in that simplicity of thought. However, this initial view of determinateness as something externally imposed is incomplete. The true nature of determinateness is not merely relational or imposed from the outside; it is an intrinsic movement, a self-moving force. Determinateness carries within itself its own otherness—it is not externally defined but internally generated. This self-moving quality is inherent in the simplicity of thought itself. The simplicity of Nous contains within it the power of self-differentiation, allowing determinateness to arise not from an external force but from the immanent logic of the concept. This self-moving quality is what allows determinateness to be active and dynamic, continually unfolding within itself rather than being passively shaped by external forces.

For this simplicity is the self-moving and self-differentiating thought, the very inwardness and pure concept. The simplicity of thought is not mere absence or lack; it is the dynamic, self-differentiating movement of the concept itself. It is through this simplicity that thought becomes self-moving, constantly unfolding and differentiating into new determinations. This self-differentiating movement is what gives the concept its depth and complexity, allowing it to evolve and transform while remaining true to its essence. The simplicity of thought is, therefore, not a static or fixed state but a living, active process that generates its own determinations and self-differentiates in a constant interplay between unity and diversity. It is through this inwardness, this movement of the pure concept, that thought realizes its full potential, becoming both self-aware and self-determining in its unfolding.

Thus, understanding (Verstand) is becoming, and as this becoming, it is reason (Vernunft). Understanding, in its most fundamental sense, is not a static or fixed faculty but is inherently a process of becoming. It is a dynamic movement, where thought evolves, shifts, and progresses as it engages with the world. Understanding is not simply the grasping of ready-made concepts or predefined truths, but an active process that unfolds through time, encountering new insights, contradictions, and challenges that propel it forward. In this sense, understanding is never a finished product but a journey—an ongoing development that continuously refines and redefines itself as it gains more clarity and depth.

As this becoming, understanding transforms into reason (Vernunft). Reason represents the higher development of understanding. While understanding begins as a process of grasping isolated concepts or facts, reason emerges when understanding begins to recognize and integrate the relationships between these concepts, seeing them not just in isolation but as interconnected parts of a larger whole. Reason goes beyond the immediate grasp of facts or experiences, synthesizing them into a coherent, unified understanding that is capable of recognizing the underlying principles and necessary connections that structure reality. In other words, reason is the culmination of the process of becoming that starts with understanding—it is understanding that has matured, integrated its moments, and has become self-reflective, capable of seeing the broader implications of its own concepts. Through reason, understanding achieves its full potential as it transcends its initial, fragmented form and becomes a unified, systematic whole.

In the nature of what exists—its being identical with its concept—lies the essence of logical necessity. The essence of any existence, in its truest form, is its identity with its concept. What a thing is, in its most fundamental sense, cannot be separated from the concept of what it is. The existence of a thing and the idea or essence that defines it are inseparable; they are one and the same. This identity reveals the underlying structure of logical necessity—the necessity that the concept must fully align with its expression in being. This unity of concept and existence is not arbitrary or contingent, but a fundamental, logical requirement. The essence of being is determined by the logical necessity that the concept and its manifestation in the world must coincide. It is through this inherent necessity that the true nature of any object or phenomenon becomes intelligible, for it is only in this unity of being and concept that we can truly understand what something is.

This necessity alone is the rational element and the rhythm of the organic whole. The logical necessity that binds concept and existence together is the driving force behind reason itself. It is the rational element that underpins the entire process of knowledge and existence. Without this necessity, there would be no coherence, no order, no intelligibility in the world. This necessity forms the “rhythm” of the organic whole—like the beat of a pulse that organizes and sustains the life of an organism, this logical necessity governs the unfolding of reality. It is through this rhythm that the organic, interconnected whole of existence comes into being, grows, and evolves. Every part of the whole is interconnected through this necessity, and it is this very interconnectedness that makes reality a living, dynamic process rather than a static, fragmented collection of isolated events.

It is as much the knowledge of the content as the content itself is concept and essence—or, in other words, it alone constitutes the speculative. The relationship between knowledge and content is not one of external observation or detached analysis. Instead, knowledge is deeply intertwined with the content it seeks to understand. The content of any subject is not simply a collection of facts or observations but is itself a concept, a living essence that can only be truly understood through its relationship to thought. Knowledge, then, is not a passive reflection of external reality but an active process that participates in the unfolding of the content’s essence. This participation is what constitutes the speculative—knowledge that is not just concerned with immediate, empirical facts but with the deeper, underlying truths that give rise to those facts. The speculative dimension of knowledge is concerned with the dynamic, self-revealing process that links the concept to its realization, unfolding the truth of both in the process of understanding.

The concrete form, in moving itself, reduces itself to simple determinateness, thereby elevating itself to logical form and attaining its essentiality. The concrete reality of an entity, in its dynamic unfolding, does not remain static or fixed; it inherently moves toward greater simplicity and determinateness as it evolves. In this process of movement, the entity strips away its contingent and particular aspects, arriving at a more essential, unified form that embodies its core nature. This transformation is not a mere external imposition of form but an inherent development within the substance itself. As the entity moves and develops, it reaches its logical form—its essential configuration—by reducing itself to a determinate simplicity. Through this reduction, it attains clarity and coherence, embodying the essence of what it truly is.

Its concrete existence is nothing other than this movement and is immediately a logical existence. The very existence of the concrete entity is not a static state but the ongoing process of becoming. In its development, it is not separate from its logical essence; the two are inseparable. The movement of the concrete existence is itself a manifestation of logical necessity—each stage of its unfolding is a necessary step in the realization of its true nature. The logical form does not come from outside the entity; rather, it is the manifestation of the entity’s inherent potential, realized through its dynamic process. This means that the entity’s concrete existence is immediately aligned with its logical essence—it is not simply an appearance or an external attribute but the living expression of its concept, actively becoming what it is meant to be.

Thus, it is unnecessary to impose formalism externally onto the concrete content; the latter inherently transitions into the former. This points to the idea that form does not have to be externally applied or imposed onto the content of the entity. The movement and development of the concrete entity naturally lead to its logical form. The content of the entity, in its unfolding, gives rise to its form—this form is not something that is artificially added from the outside. It arises organically from the very nature of the content itself, as it moves toward greater clarity and unity. The entity’s process of becoming brings its form into being; the two are not separate or imposed but are the same unfolding reality, the form and content being intrinsically linked.

However, this formalism ceases to be external because form is the intrinsic becoming of the concrete content itself. The idea of formalism, which often carries the connotation of something imposed externally upon the content, is no longer applicable here. Once form is understood as the intrinsic, self-generated movement of the concrete entity, it ceases to be external. The form is not something that is placed upon the content from outside but is instead the very unfolding of the content’s own inherent nature. The form, in this sense, is not separate or imposed—it is the expression of the content’s own becoming, its own internal process of development. This transformation demonstrates that the distinction between form and content is not absolute, but that the form emerges naturally from the content as it progresses toward its full realization.

The nature of the scientific method—to remain inseparable from its content while determining its rhythm through itself—finds its proper representation in speculative philosophy, as previously mentioned. The scientific method, in its truest form, is not an external or detached process that merely applies predetermined concepts to the material at hand. Instead, it is an active, self-determining method that is intrinsically bound to the content it seeks to understand. The rhythm of the scientific process is not dictated by external rules or frameworks but emerges organically from within the content itself, as it unfolds and reveals its inherent structure. This is the essence of the scientific method—an internal, self-sustaining movement that is inseparable from the very nature of the object being studied. Speculative philosophy, as discussed earlier, embodies this principle in its purest form, where knowledge and its object are not separated but exist in a dynamic, dialectical relationship that drives both forward.

What has been expressed here conveys the concept but can only be regarded as an anticipatory assertion. While the essence of the scientific method and its representation through speculative philosophy has been outlined here, this expression remains, at this stage, an assertion that anticipates a deeper understanding. It provides a preliminary sketch of the idea, pointing toward its fuller realization, but it is not yet the complete articulation of the truth. It introduces the concept, but the true depth and fully developed understanding of this relationship between content and method can only be realized through further exploration and engagement with the material.

Its truth does not lie in this partially narrative exposition, and thus it is no more refuted when contradicted by assurances that things are otherwise or that the matter is understood in such and such a way, based on customary notions treated as established and well-known truths, or when new ideas are conjured up from the treasury of inner divine intuition and asserted. The truth of the concept, in this case, is not contained in a simple narrative or exposition of facts, nor can it be negated by opposing assertions that rely on commonly accepted notions or superficial understandings. The claims that the matter is understood in certain ways—whether through well-established customs, familiar beliefs, or even through newly introduced ideas from intuition or divine inspiration—do not refute the underlying concept. These external assertions or ideas, however well-established or fervently asserted, cannot invalidate the deeper truth that is being pointed toward. The truth of the scientific method and its relationship to content is not something that can be easily dismissed or reduced to conventional wisdom; it requires a more profound, internal understanding that is not swayed by surface-level contradictions or external claims.

Such a reaction is typical of the initial response of knowledge encountering something unfamiliar. When knowledge first confronts something new or unfamiliar, it instinctively reacts with a defensive posture. This is a natural response to the unknown, as the mind attempts to preserve its established framework, beliefs, and understanding in the face of something that challenges it. The unfamiliar threatens the comfort of the known and the security of familiar concepts, creating a sense of resistance. Knowledge, in its early stages of engagement with the unknown, often reacts by protecting itself from the disruption this new information or idea could bring. This defensive reaction is an expression of the desire to maintain control over one’s established perspective and to avoid the disorientation that comes with confronting new, potentially unsettling truths.

It arises to safeguard freedom, personal insight, and one’s authority against the foreign—since what is newly encountered appears as such. This defensive posture is not just a response to the external unknown but also a way of safeguarding one’s intellectual freedom, personal insights, and sense of authority. When something foreign or unfamiliar enters the intellectual sphere, it can feel like a threat to one’s autonomy—an intrusion that undermines established truths or perspectives. The reaction, therefore, serves to protect the individual’s intellectual space, asserting that the existing framework has value and should not be easily displaced. The unfamiliar is often treated as something alien that must be resisted, as it challenges the individual’s established way of thinking and knowing. This is a form of intellectual self-preservation, where one’s freedom to think independently and maintain authority over one’s own insights is defended against the external imposition of new ideas or systems.

This reaction also serves to dispel any perceived shame in having learned something, just as, in the approving acceptance of the unknown, a similar reaction can manifest as what, in another sphere, would be ultra-revolutionary rhetoric and behavior. The resistance to unfamiliar knowledge often involves an element of pride or ego, especially when new ideas are perceived as threatening one’s competence or understanding. By rejecting or distancing oneself from the unknown, individuals protect themselves from feeling inferior or ashamed for not already knowing what has been introduced. On the flip side, when the unfamiliar is accepted or approved, it can lead to a different form of reaction—a sense of revolutionary zeal, as though embracing the unknown is an act of intellectual rebellion. In this case, the acceptance of new ideas is framed as bold or progressive, similar to the way ultra-revolutionary rhetoric might champion new, radical ideas as a rejection of established norms. Whether in rejection or acceptance, the reaction reflects an attempt to assert control over one’s intellectual space and to navigate the tension between the familiar and the unfamiliar.

What is essential in the study of science, therefore, is the willingness to undertake the effort of engaging with the concept. To engage in genuine scientific inquiry is not simply about accumulating facts or observations but requires a deep, active engagement with the concept itself. This involves the willingness to delve into abstract, often challenging ideas, and to follow the intellectual effort required to unfold their meaning. It is not enough to accept superficial explanations or immediate understanding; one must commit to the ongoing effort of engaging with the underlying concepts, actively participating in their development and evolution. Science, in its truest sense, demands this kind of intellectual labor—the ability to focus deeply and critically on the conceptual framework that shapes our understanding of the world.

This requires attention to the concept as such, to simple determinations like being-in-itself, being-for-itself, self-equality, and so on, for these are pure self-movements—what one might call souls, if their notion did not designate something even higher than that. To study science at this level requires attention to the fundamental determinations that constitute the very fabric of reality. These determinations—such as being-in-itself, being-for-itself, and self-equality—are not merely abstract terms or theoretical concepts; they represent the essential movements of thought itself. They are the building blocks of understanding, and engaging with them means following the logic of their development and the inner movement that drives them. These self-movements are the very essence of thought, constantly evolving and transforming as they unfold. One might even refer to these movements as “souls,” though this term is limited because it traditionally refers to something higher and more complex than the pure self-movements described here. What is meant by “soul” in this context is the vital, dynamic force that gives life to the concept, driving it forward and allowing it to express its essence. However, these “souls” are not merely passive or fixed—they are active, self-determining principles that carry the very essence of the concept forward in its development.

For those accustomed to running along the track of representations, the interruption of this flow by the concept is as unpleasant as it is for formal thinking, which oscillates between unreal thoughts. Individuals who are used to navigating the realm of representations—thinking in terms of concrete, immediate images or impressions—find the shift to conceptual thinking jarring and uncomfortable. Representations provide an easy, familiar flow of thought, where meaning seems to naturally unfold without requiring much effort to engage with abstract or underlying concepts. When this flow is disrupted by the deeper, more rigorous demands of the concept, it can feel like an unwelcome interruption. Similarly, formal thinking, which relies on fixed, isolated thoughts or predetermined categories, faces a similar discomfort. This type of thinking moves between ideas that lack real substance or internal coherence—unreal thoughts that appear disconnected from the true essence of things. The oscillation between such empty, fragmented ideas results in an intellectual experience that lacks depth and meaningful connection, contributing to a sense of mental restlessness and dissatisfaction.

The former habit could be called material thinking, a form of contingent consciousness immersed in its content, finding it burdensome to simultaneously lift itself out of the material and remain with itself. Material thinking refers to a mode of thought that is deeply entrenched in the concrete details of its content, often to the point of being absorbed by it. This type of thinking is grounded in the immediate, the empirical, and the contingent—what is directly present or observable. While it is effective for dealing with tangible, particular facts, it struggles with abstraction. To shift from this material, content-driven thinking to more conceptual forms of thought—ones that are not merely tied to the immediate, the specific, or the sensory—can feel burdensome. It requires the thinker to lift themselves out of the immediate material and engage with abstract concepts while still holding onto the essence of what they are trying to understand. This dual movement—both distancing oneself from the material and maintaining a sense of continuity with it—presents a significant challenge for those accustomed to material thinking.

The latter, mere reasoning (Räsonniren), represents freedom from content and vanity over it. On the other hand, reasoning represents a different intellectual stance: one that is more detached and abstract, often free from the content it deals with. Reasoning, in this sense, can be seen as the exercise of mental faculties that are no longer tied to particular content or material, but instead move freely through generalities or assumptions. However, this freedom can quickly become a form of intellectual vanity. Without grounding in the material or the content, reasoning can easily turn into empty formalism—an intellectual game of moving from one idea to another without engaging deeply with the essence of the subject matter. It lacks substance and connection to the reality of the content, instead displaying an overemphasis on abstract thought and the ability to manipulate ideas without any real grounding in what those ideas represent. This type of thinking, while seemingly “free,” is ultimately hollow and disconnected from the true depth of the subject it addresses.

To both, the effort is demanded: for material thinking, to lift itself out of its immersion; for reasoning, to relinquish its arbitrary freedom and refrain from acting as the principle of content. Both forms of thinking—material thinking and reasoning—require a significant intellectual effort, though in different ways. For material thinking, the challenge lies in breaking free from its deep immersion in the immediate, the empirical, and the contingent. It is often consumed by its focus on concrete facts, sensory data, and practical details, making it difficult to transition into more abstract or conceptual modes of thought. The thinker must actively lift themselves out of this immersion, stepping back from the immediate content and considering the underlying principles, structures, and ideas that shape it. This requires a shift from being absorbed in the particulars to a more reflective, abstract engagement with the concepts that underlie them.

For reasoning, the effort is to relinquish its arbitrary freedom and refrain from acting as the principle of content. In contrast, reasoning often prides itself on its freedom—freedom to move from one idea to another, to explore concepts without being tied to any particular content. However, this freedom can easily become a form of intellectual arbitrariness, where ideas are manipulated without any grounding in reality or in the content they are supposed to explain. The task for reasoning, then, is to relinquish this arbitrary freedom and resist the temptation to impose its own framework or assumptions onto the content. Instead, reasoning must allow itself to be shaped by the content, surrendering its role as the principle that dictates how the content should be understood. It must stop acting as though it knows better than the content itself and instead immerse itself in the content, letting it unfold according to its own inherent logic and structure.

Instead, it must immerse itself into content, allow it to move through its own nature—that is, through the self as its essence—and observe this movement. The true role of reasoning is not to impose structure or meaning from the outside but to immerse itself fully in the content, allowing the content to reveal its own nature. This means observing how the content unfolds from within, following its internal development and logic. The content is not static or fixed; it is alive and dynamic, moving through its own essential nature. Reasoning must step aside from its arbitrary influence and allow the content to reveal itself according to its own rhythm, its own inherent self-expression. This requires a deep attentiveness to the flow of the content as it emerges, rather than imposing preconceived notions or rigid structures on it.

To abstain from arbitrary interventions and previously acquired wisdom, to refrain from interfering with the immanent rhythm of the concepts—this self-restraint is itself an essential moment of attentiveness to the concept. A critical component of this intellectual engagement is self-restraint—the willingness to refrain from interrupting or manipulating the natural flow of the content. Reasoning must resist the temptation to intervene with arbitrary judgments, biases, or preconceived knowledge. Instead, it must step back and allow the content to unfold according to its own immanent rhythm. This rhythm is the internal movement of the concept itself, which cannot be forced or directed by the external will of the thinker. The essence of attentiveness to the concept lies in this self-restraint: allowing the concept to guide the process of thinking and revelation, without trying to control or distort it based on external factors or prior knowledge. Only through this attentive self-restraint can reasoning genuinely engage with the concept and allow it to manifest in its full richness and depth.

In reasoning (räsonnirendes Verhalten), two aspects can be noted, in contrast to which conceptual thinking (begreifendes Denken) stands opposed. Reasoning, in its most common form, involves two distinct tendencies or dimensions. The first is the reliance on external structures or pre-established frameworks—reasoning often moves from one point to another by following a set of rules, schemas, or assumptions, which may not necessarily be grounded in the intrinsic nature of the subject matter itself. This approach tends to treat concepts and ideas as external constructs, applying them to content without fully engaging with the content’s internal logic or development. The second aspect of reasoning is its tendency to focus on surface-level distinctions, often dealing with concepts or facts in isolation. It moves from one isolated point to another, making connections between discrete elements without fully integrating them into a coherent, unified whole. In this sense, reasoning can appear fragmented, jumping from one idea to another without delving deeply into the relationships and internal structures that bind them.

In contrast, conceptual thinking stands opposed to these tendencies. Conceptual thinking, unlike mere reasoning, does not operate through external frameworks or arbitrary connections. Instead, it seeks to grasp the inner essence of the concept itself, engaging with it on a deeper level. Conceptual thinking is concerned with understanding the internal logic of a concept, not just its superficial application or external relations. It is more than just manipulating ideas or applying pre-existing categories to content; it involves a direct, intimate engagement with the concept’s unfolding nature. In conceptual thinking, the emphasis is not on external labels or fixed rules but on the active process of understanding how the concept develops, transforms, and relates to other concepts. Rather than jumping from one isolated idea to another, conceptual thinking seeks to understand the underlying unity and connections between ideas, allowing for a deeper, more integrated understanding of the whole.

First, reasoning often adopts a negative stance toward the content it engages with, demonstrating the ability to refute and nullify it. When reasoning is at work, it frequently takes the form of critique, skepticism, or dismissal. The primary focus here is on identifying flaws, contradictions, or inconsistencies within the content, and its primary action is the ability to negate or refute. Reasoning operates through a process of contradiction, asserting that something is not so or that an idea does not hold true, and this insight into the negative—this recognition that something is false or flawed—is central to its function. However, while this ability to negate is crucial, it does not by itself lead to the creation of new, substantive knowledge. The act of recognizing something as false or incomplete does not transcend the negativity inherent in that realization, and thus reasoning remains locked in a process of elimination rather than construction. The true movement of knowledge, to be fully realized, requires more than just the negation of content; it demands a positive movement that generates new understanding or content, which reasoning in its negative form does not achieve.

The realization that something is not so—that insight—is purely negative. This moment of insight, in which we recognize that something is not true or does not align with our expectations, is fundamentally negative. It marks a moment of clarity, but that clarity is centered around the absence of truth, not the presence of it. The insight itself does not reveal anything new or positive; it merely indicates what is lacking, what does not belong, or what needs to be excluded. In this way, it is not a constructive, generative insight but a purely destructive one—a movement that clears the way for something new to emerge without, in itself, creating anything new. This negative insight is a necessary step, but it is incomplete, as it does not carry the process forward into the realm of positivity or new content.

It does not transcend itself to produce new content; instead, it must seek some other content elsewhere to proceed. The negative stance of reasoning requires that it always look beyond itself for the next step. It does not develop content from within itself but must continually search for new material, new concepts, or new insights from outside. This external reliance reflects the fundamental limitation of reasoning—it is constantly dependent on new objects or premises to negate, critique, or explore. The insight that something is not true does not carry the thinker forward into new possibilities or productive ideas; instead, it leaves the thinker at an impasse, requiring external input to continue its work. This external reliance means that reasoning, in its negative form, remains stagnant without something new to negate or refute.

This is reflection into the empty self (Ich), the vanity of its knowledge. The process of reasoning, when it is purely negative, turns inward, reflecting only on the self and its ability to negate, rather than on the world or the content itself. This inward reflection often becomes an empty, self-satisfied cycle, where the focus is on the mind’s capacity to critique and dismiss rather than on understanding or producing new knowledge. The “empty self” in this context represents a self-contained movement of thought that focuses on its own ability to assert what is not, rather than engaging with what is or could be. This leads to a kind of vanity in knowledge—where the thinker takes pride in their ability to identify errors, contradictions, or flaws, without realizing that this process does not lead to true insight or understanding. The vanity lies not just in the content being refuted, but in the process itself, which becomes self-congratulatory and self-limiting.

However, this vanity does not only reveal that the content is vain but also that the insight itself is vain, as it represents negativity that fails to recognize the positive within itself. The negative nature of reasoning, in its self-contained, critical form, reveals not only the emptiness of the content it engages with but also the emptiness within the reasoning process itself. The insight gained through mere negation is ultimately a shallow one—it only tells us what something is not, not what it is. It fails to acknowledge the positive, productive potential within the concept or content. The true value of insight lies not only in identifying what is false or flawed but in discovering what is true, constructive, and generative within the content. By focusing only on the negative, reasoning remains incomplete and fails to recognize the possibility of positive, transformative insight within itself. The process of knowledge, to be truly meaningful, must move beyond mere negation to embrace the positive and the constructive, integrating both aspects into a unified understanding.

Because this reflection does not turn its negativity into content, it remains external to the matter at hand and never fully engages with it. The act of negation, while essential for identifying what is not true or what does not align, does not, in itself, engage with the deeper nature of the content. It remains external to the matter it seeks to critique or eliminate, treating it as something separate from the process of knowing. The negativity of reasoning is a kind of outward movement—focused on rejecting or discarding what is perceived as false—without delving into the substance of the content itself. This means that, although the thinker may critique or dismiss certain aspects of the content, they fail to engage with the true nature of that content, its inner logic, or its potential for development. Instead of transforming the content through engagement, the negative process leaves the content untouched, only pointing to what is lacking or incorrect.

Consequently, it imagines itself to be more advanced by asserting emptiness rather than possessing any substantive insight. The vanity of this process lies in the illusion that mere negation constitutes progress. By asserting that something is not so, reasoning falsely imagines itself to have moved beyond the content, to be more advanced or sophisticated than it was before. Yet this progress is illusory, as it is based only on the rejection of what is false, rather than the construction or discovery of what is true. The act of negation may appear as though it brings the thinker closer to understanding, but in reality, it does not bring any substantial insight or new content into view. The thinker, in this case, mistakes the absence of error for the presence of truth, assuming that by clearing away falsehood, they have arrived at something more profound. However, this form of thinking does not lead to genuine knowledge—it is merely a form of intellectual vanity, where the thinker believes they possess insight simply because they have rejected what is wrong, without engaging with the deeper, positive truths that could emerge from a more thorough, constructive engagement with the content itself.

In contrast, as previously shown, in conceptual thinking, negativity belongs to the content itself. Unlike reasoning, which treats negativity as an external force that imposes itself upon the content, conceptual thinking understands negativity as an intrinsic part of the content’s own nature. Negativity is not something that stands apart from the content but is immanent to it—it is a necessary aspect of the content’s development and unfolding. In conceptual thinking, negativity is not a rejection or a mere negation of something else; rather, it is a dynamic force that drives the content forward, shaping and refining it as part of its internal process of becoming. It is through this immanent negativity that the concept evolves, differentiating itself and moving toward greater specificity and clarity.

It is the immanent movement and determination of the content, and as the totality of this movement, it is also positive. The movement of negativity within the concept is not a destructive or limiting force but a generative one. It is through the internal movement of negativity that the content gains its shape, its form, and its full realization. This negativity does not exist in isolation; it is a force that propels the concept forward, determining its structure and its development. As such, it is not a mere absence or void but a productive force that generates positive content. The negativity inherent in the content does not negate its value or essence; instead, it is through this movement that the content comes to life, becoming more concrete, more developed, and more fully realized.

When understood as a result, it emerges from this movement as determinate negativity, which is thus also a positive content. The final result of this process is not just a concept that has been negated or emptied of meaning but one that has been fully determined through its internal movement. The negativity that drives the content is not aimless or arbitrary—it is a determinate force that shapes and gives structure to the concept. As a result, this negativity is not merely the absence of something but the active determination of the content itself. The end result is a positive, fully realized concept that emerges from the very movement of negativity, demonstrating that the process of negation is, in fact, a constructive and necessary step in the development of knowledge. This makes the content not just a passive receptacle of ideas but an active, evolving concept that embodies both the process of becoming and its final realization.

Regarding the fact that such thinking possesses content—whether consisting of representations, thoughts, or a mixture of both—it presents another aspect that makes comprehension (Begreifen) challenging. One of the defining features of thinking, particularly in the process of comprehension, is that it is never simply an engagement with abstract concepts in isolation. Instead, thinking always involves content, whether it be in the form of mental representations, conceptual thoughts, or a blend of both. This content is not static but dynamic, shifting and evolving as the thinker interacts with it. The challenge in comprehension arises precisely from the fact that the content in thinking is not fixed—it consists of various elements, including representations (mental images or sensory data) and abstract thoughts (concepts, ideas, principles). These elements can be fluid and interconnected, and as such, thinking must navigate their relationships, determining how to integrate or differentiate them in the process of understanding. The movement between these different types of content complicates the process of comprehension, as the thinker must continuously adjust and refine their understanding to account for the dynamic nature of the material they are engaging with.

This peculiar nature closely relates to the essence of the idea described earlier or rather expresses it as it appears in its motion, as thinking apprehension. The essence of thought is not merely a static entity but something that is alive and constantly in motion. The idea of comprehension, as it was previously discussed, is not just about grasping a fixed, unchanging concept but involves a dynamic process of apprehending and engaging with that concept as it unfolds. Thinking, in its true form, is not a passive reception of knowledge but an active engagement with ideas, where the thinker’s mind moves through them, examining, analyzing, and synthesizing them. This dynamic motion is essential to the nature of thought—it is through this motion that thought comes to know itself, constantly reshaping and refining its understanding. What is apprehended in thought is not a mere object of knowledge, but the very process of knowledge itself, unfolding through the act of thinking. Thus, thinking is not simply about capturing or representing static content, but about participating in the active movement of the idea as it reveals itself in the process of comprehension.

In its negative mode, reasoning (räsonnierendes Denken) reflects content back into the self, making the self the center to which all content returns. When reasoning operates in its negative mode, it does so by focusing inward, reflecting all content back onto the self. In this mode, the thinker does not engage with the content in a way that allows it to unfold or reveal its inherent nature. Instead, the content is seen through the lens of the self, with everything being interpreted in terms of what the self already knows or presupposes. The content is essentially filtered through the thinker’s subjective framework, making the self the central point of reference. This inward reflection does not allow for true engagement with the content on its own terms, as it tends to reduce everything to the self’s preconceived categories or perspectives. The process is one of negation—content is not seen in its own dynamic reality but is rather absorbed into the static, closed structure of the self, losing its vitality and movement.

In its positive mode, however, reasoning treats the self as a static subject upon which the content rests as an accident or predicate. In contrast, when reasoning operates in its positive mode, it shifts its focus outward. Here, the self is treated as a more fixed or static subject, an unchanging foundation upon which the content is placed. In this mode, reasoning does not reflect content back into the self but rather uses the self as a stable reference point onto which the various elements of content are attached. The self becomes the backdrop or the subject upon which the attributes of the content—its accidents or predicates—are projected. The content, in this view, is external to the self and is defined by its relationship to it. The thinker positions themselves as an observer, anchoring the content in place and moving back and forth between the self and the content. The content is thus treated as something separate from the self, which remains unchanged and serves as the organizing principle for the movement of thought.

This subject serves as the foundation for the movement of thought, moving back and forth, anchoring the content in place. The static subject in this mode of reasoning is not a dynamic participant in the process of thought, but rather a fixed center that provides stability and coherence for the movement of ideas. Reasoning, in this sense, becomes a process of organizing and relating the content to this stable subject, rather than allowing the content to shape and redefine the subject itself. The movement of thought, in this case, oscillates between the self and the content, with the self serving as the anchoring force that holds the content in place. This process, while it provides structure, does not allow for the deeper, more transformative engagement with the content that comes from an active, dynamic relationship between the self and the ideas being considered. The subject remains fixed, and the content is merely anchored to it, without the possibility of mutual development or integration.

In conceptual thinking (begreifendes Denken), the situation is different. Unlike reasoning, which relies on a static subject as its foundation, conceptual thinking is characterized by a more dynamic and fluid process. In conceptual thinking, the concept itself is not something that merely resides in the subject as a fixed container of content, but rather it is the very essence of the object, manifesting as the object’s becoming. The concept in this case is not a passive or static entity that simply holds or carries the determinations of the object as accidents or external attributes. Instead, the concept is active—it is the self of the object, the essential movement by which the object comes into being and is continuously shaped by its own inner logic. The concept is not something separate from the object, but rather, it is the object’s very process of becoming, the unfolding of its essence. In this way, the object is not a static thing, but a dynamic, self-generating process that is continuously in motion, shaped and defined by its own inherent conceptual nature.

It is not a static subject carrying accidents, but rather a dynamic process in which the subject itself dissolves into its distinctions and content. In conceptual thinking, the subject is not a fixed entity that simply serves as the backdrop to the content. Instead, the subject itself undergoes transformation as it becomes actively involved in the process of thinking. The subject dissolves into the content—it is no longer a separate, external observer but is intimately tied to the content it seeks to understand. The subject does not merely “carry” the content as an external addition, but is itself redefined and reshaped in the act of engagement with the content. The distinctions and determinations that arise within the concept are not imposed externally upon the object; they emerge organically from within the object itself, with the subject actively participating in this process of unfolding and differentiation.

It actively constitutes the determinations—the differentiated content and its movement—rather than merely standing apart from them. The subject in conceptual thinking does not remain detached from the content, but is actively involved in constituting it. Rather than passively observing or organizing pre-existing determinations, the subject is the force that brings these determinations into being. It is the dynamic force that differentiates the content, that gives shape to the various aspects of the object, and that moves them forward in the process of becoming. The determinations are not external impositions upon the content, but rather the result of the subject’s active engagement with the object. The subject is not a neutral observer but a participant in the very creation and movement of the content, and through this participation, it transforms both the content and itself.

Consequently, the fixed foundation on which reasoning depends—the static subject—is no longer stable. In conceptual thinking, the static foundation of the subject that reasoning relies on is no longer tenable. The subject, which in reasoning was seen as a stable, unchanging foundation upon which all determinations rested, is now in constant flux. As the content and the subject merge and evolve together, there is no longer a fixed, stable ground upon which to rest. The subject itself is in motion, continuously being reshaped by its interaction with the content. The idea of a fixed foundation is dissolved, and instead, the process of becoming becomes the core of knowledge and understanding.

Instead, movement itself becomes the object. In conceptual thinking, the focus shifts from a fixed object and a stable subject to movement itself. The object is no longer a static thing to be grasped, but a dynamic process that is constantly in motion. The content of knowledge is no longer something that can be merely described or observed; it is something that unfolds, develops, and becomes. Movement, rather than stasis, becomes the true object of conceptual thinking, and it is in this movement that both the object and the subject are realized. In this sense, the act of thinking is no longer about grasping a fixed reality, but about engaging with the living, evolving process of becoming, where both thought and being are continuously transforming and being redefined.

In this framework, the subject, now filled by its content, no longer stands apart or allows for further predicates or accidents. In conceptual thinking, the subject ceases to be a detached or passive container for the content it engages with. Rather, the subject is actively integrated with its content, becoming fully defined by it. The content, no longer something that exists outside of the subject as an external addition, becomes internalized and inseparable from the subject itself. The distinctions between the subject and its predicates, which in representational thinking were kept separate, begin to dissolve. The subject is no longer an empty vessel to which external qualities or attributes are added; instead, it is defined and shaped by the content it contains, and in this dynamic relationship, the boundaries between the two blur. The subject’s identity is now fully realized through its content, and there is no longer any room for external predicates that could be attached as separate entities.

The scattered nature of content is, in turn, bound to the self. The previously fragmented or scattered elements of content are now unified and bound together within the subject. What was once a collection of discrete ideas, external attributes, or characteristics is now held together in a cohesive whole. The content is no longer a set of independent, isolated moments; instead, it is a structured, coherent unity that is directly tied to the subject. The subject no longer merely reflects or holds onto external representations of reality but is actively engaged in the construction of this unity. The scattered pieces of content, previously disconnected or arbitrarily placed, now come together and are organized within the subject as part of its self-definition. This process of unification reveals the content as an active, living part of the subject’s unfolding reality, rather than something passively received or externally applied.

The content is no longer an external predicate of the subject but instead becomes the substance, the essence, and the concept of what is discussed. In this integrated framework, the content does not remain an external, incidental quality or attribute of the subject, but instead becomes the very essence of the subject. It is no longer something that is merely appended to the subject as a predicate (an adjective or descriptive characteristic), but something that constitutes the subject’s core being. The content now becomes the substance of the subject itself—the fundamental material from which the subject is made and defined. The subject and its content are no longer separate or distinguishable entities; the subject is the content, and the content is the subject. This relationship between the two creates a new unity, where the essence of what is discussed is inseparable from the act of discussing it.

Representational thinking, accustomed to moving among predicates and accidents—and rightly so, as they are no more than that—finds itself disrupted because what appears as a predicate is now the substance itself. In representational thinking, the thinker typically moves between different predicates, which are treated as external characteristics or descriptions of an object. These predicates are understood as separate from the essence of the object, merely attached to it as qualities that do not affect its core being. However, in the framework of conceptual thinking, this movement becomes problematic. What was once considered an external predicate now becomes the very essence of the object. The distinction between substance and attribute collapses, and the predicates are no longer mere add-ons but are internalized into the substance itself. This shift disrupts the traditional structure of representational thinking, where the thinker treats the subject as a fixed, passive entity to which various qualities are applied. Instead, the subject is now fully defined by the content it holds, and the thinking process must accommodate this deeper unity, where the predicates no longer function as external additions but as integral moments of the subject’s own unfolding essence.

Starting from the subject, representational thinking expects the subject to remain as a foundation. In representational thinking, the subject is typically treated as the stable, unchanging foundation upon which all predicates or attributes are added. The subject is seen as the primary reference point, the starting position from which all other qualities and characteristics emerge. The predicates are considered external additions to the subject, and thinking is oriented around the assumption that the subject remains fixed while the predicates are varied and added on top of it. This static understanding of the subject provides a sense of stability, allowing thinking to move freely from one predicate to another, each time returning to the same stable subject as the anchor.

Yet, when it discovers that the predicate has become the substance, the subject transitions into a predicate and is thus annulled. However, as thinking moves deeper, it realizes that the relationship between subject and predicate is not so simple. The moment of realization comes when thinking discovers that the predicate is no longer an external quality but has become the very substance itself. In this shift, what was once an additional feature of the subject is now recognized as the core, active component that defines the subject’s nature. The subject, no longer merely the foundation, transforms into one of its own predicates, and as such, it is no longer the unchanging foundation it once was. The distinction between subject and predicate dissolves, and the subject, in its transformation, loses its fixed, foundational status. It is annulled because it no longer serves as the static point from which all other elements emerge but is now part of the process of becoming, integrated into the very substance it once defined.

Since what appears to be a predicate transforms into a complete and independent whole, thinking cannot wander freely but is constrained by this substantial weight. Once the predicate is recognized as the substance, as the essence of the matter, thinking cannot continue in the same free-flowing, arbitrary manner it once did. The shift from subject to predicate represents a profound transformation in the nature of thinking itself. The predicate, now seen as the substance, is no longer an isolated feature to be applied externally to a passive subject. It has become a complete, self-contained entity in its own right. This change imposes constraints on thinking, as it can no longer treat the predicates as mere additions or external features. The content now carries a substantial weight that must be carefully considered, as thinking must engage deeply with the whole process, not just with fragmented, superficial aspects. The free movement of thought is no longer possible; thinking is bound by the need to fully understand the substance in its new form, where subject and predicate are inseparable, and the distinctions that once allowed for flexibility and movement no longer hold.

In the usual mode of thought, the subject is initially posited as a fixed, objective self. In conventional thinking, the subject is typically established as a starting point—something that exists independently, with an assumed identity that is distinct from the content or predicates it might encounter. The subject is regarded as a fixed, objective entity, a foundation upon which various attributes or characteristics (predicates) can be applied. From this initial position, thought proceeds outward, moving toward the multiplicity of determinations that can be attributed to the subject. Thought’s task is to identify and organize these predicates—whether qualities, actions, or relationships—onto the stable subject. In this mode, the subject remains static, and the thinking process is concerned with categorizing and applying the appropriate predicates to it.

However, in conceptual thinking, the knowing self—the second subject—finds the first subject, which it assumed to have already resolved, embedded within the predicates themselves. In contrast to conventional thinking, conceptual thinking shifts the focus to the deeper, more dynamic relationship between the subject and its predicates. The knowing self, engaged in the act of conceptual thought, finds that the subject it assumed to be fixed and resolved is actually embedded within the very predicates it is attempting to apply. The subject is not a static entity that exists separately from the content; rather, it is interwoven with the predicates themselves. The content does not merely serve as an external attribute of the subject but as an active, evolving part of the subject’s essence. The predicates that were once thought to be separate from the subject are now seen as integral to the subject’s unfolding nature. Thus, the initial separation between the subject and the predicates begins to break down, revealing that the subject’s identity is not a fixed starting point but is continuously shaped and defined by its interaction with the predicates.

Instead of simply engaging in the act of reasoning, determining whether this or that predicate applies to the subject, the knowing self must still grapple with the self of the content. In conceptual thinking, the task is no longer a mere exercise of reasoning, where the thinker merely applies predefined predicates to a static subject. Rather, the knowing self must engage with the content on a deeper level, grappling with the very selfhood of the content itself. The predicates are not external additions to a pre-existing subject, but part of the internal, self-generating process of the subject’s identity. The thinker must confront this living, dynamic relationship between the subject and its content, recognizing that the subject is not merely an object to be described, but an active process of becoming that is inseparable from its predicates. This dynamic relationship requires a more profound engagement with the material—it is not enough to simply categorize or label the content; the thinker must understand and participate in the ongoing development and transformation of the subject and its predicates.

It cannot remain independent but must unite with this content. In this mode of thinking, the knowing self cannot remain detached or independent from the content it seeks to understand. It must unite with the content, engaging with it as part of a larger, organic whole. The separation between subject and content, which is a hallmark of conventional reasoning, dissolves in conceptual thinking. Instead of applying external categories to a static subject, the thinker must participate in the content’s unfolding, recognizing the essential unity between the two. The knowing self becomes intertwined with the content, shaping and being shaped by it in a continuous process of mutual development. This unity between the self and the content reflects the deep interconnection at the heart of conceptual thinking, where thought does not merely observe the world from a distance, but actively participates in its movement and transformation.

Formally, the stated idea can be expressed as follows: the nature of the judgment or proposition, which inherently includes the distinction between subject and predicate, is disrupted by the speculative proposition. In traditional forms of judgment or proposition, the structure is clear and fixed—the subject is posited as a separate, distinct entity, and the predicate is something that is attributed to the subject. This classical structure of judgment relies on a clear division between subject and predicate, each maintaining its separate identity. The subject is the starting point, the fixed entity, and the predicate is the attribute or characteristic that is applied to it. This form of reasoning is based on the premise that the subject and predicate are two distinct, separate components of knowledge, with their relationship being an external one—where the predicate is something added to the subject without altering its fundamental nature.

However, the speculative proposition disrupts this traditional framework. In the speculative proposition, the distinction between subject and predicate is no longer maintained in the same rigid, external sense. Instead, the speculative proposition introduces a new kind of unity, where the subject and predicate are not separate and external to each other, but are seen as interconnected and mutually constitutive. In this mode of thinking, the subject and predicate are not two distinct components that are merely related externally; they are deeply interwoven in a dialectical relationship, where each informs and shapes the other. This disruption of the original distinction between subject and predicate creates a new kind of proposition—one that is no longer bound by the limitations of classical judgment. The speculative proposition reveals that the subject and predicate are not opposites or external additions, but are part of a dynamic, living whole that constantly evolves and transforms.

In the speculative proposition, the identical statement into which the former transforms carries a tension against the distinction inherent in the original form. The speculative proposition, therefore, carries within it an inherent tension. The very unity that it posits between the subject and predicate creates a contradiction with the traditional understanding of their separation. What was once a distinct, external relationship now becomes a unified, internal process. The speculative proposition reveals that the apparent opposition between subject and predicate is not a true opposition but rather a moment of a deeper unity. This tension is not a contradiction that must be resolved in favor of one side or the other, but a productive force that drives the concept forward. The speculative proposition embodies this dynamic movement, where the subject and predicate are no longer separate entities but moments of the same process—each influencing and determining the other in a continual unfolding of thought.

This conflict between the structure of a proposition and the unifying concept that dissolves it is analogous to the tension found in rhythm, between meter and accent. Just as rhythm is not simply the sum of individual beats or a mere alternation between meter and accent, but rather the dynamic interplay between the two, so too does the philosophical proposition embody a similar tension. In music, meter represents the regular, structured pattern, while accent introduces a forceful emphasis, creating variation and movement within the regularity. The conflict between these two elements—structure and emphasis—gives rise to rhythm, a flowing and living unity that is more than just a sequence of repetitive units. It is this very tension, the interplay between the regularity of meter and the emphasis of accent, that creates the life and energy of rhythm. The regularity and accent do not simply oppose each other; they work together, suspended and unified in a way that generates a dynamic, moving force.

Similarly, in a philosophical proposition, the identity of subject and predicate should not annihilate the distinction expressed by the form of the proposition but rather reveal their unity as a harmony. Just as rhythm emerges from the interaction between the meter and accent, the speculative proposition emerges from the tension between the subject and predicate. In the traditional proposition, subject and predicate are distinct, but in the speculative proposition, their distinction is not destroyed. Rather, their unity is revealed through their dynamic relationship. The subject and predicate do not simply collapse into one another, erasing the boundary between them; rather, their relationship is revealed as a harmonious whole. The tension between them—like the tension in rhythm—gives rise to a deeper, more complex unity, where each moment retains its individuality but is also essential to the unity of the whole. This harmony is not static or fixed but is an ongoing, dynamic process, one that continually unfolds as the relationship between subject and predicate develops. The speculative proposition, like rhythm, is not about resolving conflict into a single, undifferentiated whole, but about recognizing how the distinction between the elements, through their unity, creates a higher, living form of understanding.

The structure of the proposition represents the appearance of determinate meaning or the accent that differentiates its fulfillment. In a philosophical proposition, the structure itself is essential, as it organizes and presents the content in a specific form. The structure reflects the determinate meaning, the clarity of the thought being expressed, and serves as the vehicle through which the content is communicated. However, within this structure, there is an inherent tension, akin to the accent in rhythm. The accent in music gives emphasis and highlights specific moments in the flow, creating a sense of movement and differentiation. Similarly, the structure of the proposition gives shape to the thought but also introduces a kind of differentiation that marks its specific fulfillment. The accent—the distinct, articulated difference—stands out within the framework of the proposition, creating a focal point for understanding.

However, the predicate, which conveys the substance, absorbs the subject into universality, and this unity resolves the distinction in a way where the accent fades into harmony. While the structure sets the stage for differentiation, it is the predicate that carries the true substance of the proposition. The predicate does not simply describe or add something to the subject; it transforms the subject by introducing the substance of the idea. Through the predicate, the subject is not isolated or detached but is drawn into a larger, more universal context. The subject, once distinct and separate, is now absorbed into the unity conveyed by the predicate, which moves the entire proposition toward universality. In this process, the tension between subject and predicate—the distinction between them—is not eliminated but is transcended and resolved. The accent of the structure, the differentiation that creates distinction, gives way to a deeper unity where the subject and predicate coexist in a harmonious relationship. Just as in rhythm, where the meter and accent work together to produce a living, flowing whole, in the proposition, the predicate unites the subject with its broader, universal meaning, dissolving the sharpness of the initial distinction and allowing the thought to resonate as a cohesive, unified concept.

To illustrate the above with examples: in the proposition “God is Being,” the predicate “Being” carries a substantial meaning, dissolving the subject. In this proposition, the term “Being” is not simply functioning as a superficial predicate that attributes a characteristic to God. Rather, “Being” is the essence itself—an essential concept that embodies the very substance and nature of God. When we say “God is Being,” we are not merely stating that God possesses the quality of being, as one might attribute a characteristic to any other subject. Instead, “Being” here is understood as the very core or substance of God, the fundamental ground that defines and encompasses His existence. This transforms the meaning of the proposition, as the predicate no longer remains a mere description of the subject, but becomes a vital part of the subject’s identity.

Here, Being is not merely meant as a predicate but as the essence itself. The term “Being” moves beyond its traditional role as a descriptive element and instead becomes the defining quality of the subject itself. It does not simply modify or add to God’s identity, but rather expresses God’s very essence—what He truly is in His most fundamental form. The predicate no longer operates externally to the subject but becomes internally intertwined with it, revealing the subject’s true nature. This shift is crucial because it demonstrates that the concept of Being, when used in this context, is not an external attribute applied to God, but the very substance of His existence. The subject and predicate are no longer two separate, distinct entities, but instead are united in a deeper, essential harmony that transcends their original distinction.

This appears to make God cease to be what He is posited as in the structure of the sentence—namely, a fixed subject. Traditionally, in a proposition, the subject is seen as a fixed, stable entity, and the predicate is something added to describe it. In the case of “God is Being,” however, the structure of the sentence appears to dissolve the fixity of the subject. Since “Being” is not merely an external attribute but the very essence of God, the subject—God—seems to lose its initial, fixed identity as a distinct, separate entity. The traditional distinction between subject and predicate begins to fade, as the subject (God) is no longer a static, independent entity, but is defined by the predicate (Being). This shift reflects the deeper, speculative nature of the proposition, where the boundary between the subject and predicate is not simply maintained, but rather transcended, revealing a more profound unity. In this sense, the proposition does not just state something about God—it reveals the very essence of His existence through the unity of subject and predicate.

Instead of advancing through the transition from subject to predicate, thinking finds itself obstructed as the subject is lost and is compelled to return to the idea of the subject because it feels its absence. In the process of philosophical thinking, when the proposition “God is Being” is considered, the shift from subject to predicate seems to disrupt the flow of thought. Ordinarily, reasoning proceeds smoothly from subject to predicate—starting with a fixed subject and attributing to it a characteristic or quality. However, in this case, the subject (God) is not simply modified or described by the predicate (Being), but is redefined by it. As a result, thinking encounters an obstacle. The subject, which was initially posited as a fixed entity, seems to dissolve into the predicate, and this dissolution creates a sense of loss. The thinker is momentarily blocked, as the usual trajectory of thought—moving from a stable subject to its properties—becomes unsettled. The thinker must return to the idea of the subject itself, recognizing its absence in the transformation and attempting to re-establish its identity within the framework of the proposition. This return to the subject is not a simple retracing of steps; rather, it is a deeper engagement with the subject’s essence, seeking to understand its role in the unfolding of the thought.

Alternatively, it discovers that the predicate itself is posited as a subject—as Being, as essence—and thus encompasses the nature of the subject. Rather than remaining an external characteristic of the subject, the predicate—Being—takes on a new role. It is no longer merely something applied to God but becomes the subject itself, posited as the very essence of God. The predicate “Being” thus encapsulates the nature of the subject, becoming more than just a descriptive term. It is not merely added to God’s identity but is, in fact, the essence that defines God’s existence. This realization changes the nature of the proposition, as the predicate does not just describe or modify the subject but becomes the subject in a deeper, more essential sense. Thought, in this way, finds that the predicate is no longer separate or external; it is intrinsically bound to the subject and encompasses its very nature.

Consequently, rather than moving freely in the predicate, as reasoning might allow, thought remains immersed in or is at least required to immerse itself in the content. In the conventional use of reasoning, thought often moves freely through predicates, adding and modifying them as it encounters new subjects or content. However, in this case, the thinker cannot simply move freely through the predicate. The deep interconnection between subject and predicate demands that thought remain immersed in the content, as it cannot separate the essence of the subject from the essence of the predicate. Thought is required to engage deeply with the content of the proposition—not just by adding labels or attributes but by recognizing the unity and transformation that the subject and predicate undergo in their relationship. Thought must dive into the very substance of the content, as the predicate no longer remains an external feature but becomes an integral part of the subject’s unfolding essence.

Similarly, in the statement “The actual is the universal,” the actual as subject dissolves into its predicate, the universal. In this proposition, the subject “the actual” is not a fixed, static entity that merely serves as a starting point for the predicate to be applied. Rather, the subject dissolves into the predicate in a way that the subject and predicate are no longer separate, external elements. The actual is not merely described by the universal; it becomes the universal itself. This transformation is crucial, as it shows that the actual is not merely a particular instance that can be categorized by an overarching universal, but rather the actual becomes the universal in its essence. The actual does not merely possess the universal as an external attribute, but embodies it as its own intrinsic nature. The unity between subject and predicate here is profound—the actual and the universal are not opposites or mere relational components, but are fused into one organic, essential whole.

The universal is not simply meant as a predicate in the sense that the proposition states the actual is universal, but rather it expresses the essence of the actual. The term “universal” in this context goes beyond its usual role as a mere descriptive term applied to the subject. It is not simply stating that the actual happens to be a universal characteristic or that the actual shares certain universal qualities. Instead, the universal here refers to the deeper essence of the actual. The actual is revealed not as a singular, particular entity but as something that expresses the very concept of universality in its full realization. In this statement, the universal is not an abstract, general idea that merely describes the actual; it is the actual’s very essence, the fundamental principle that defines and shapes the actual’s nature. The predicate “universal” thus becomes the heart of the subject itself—the actual cannot be understood apart from its universal nature, and the universal is not something externally applied but internally constitutive of what the actual is.

Thus, thought loses its stable, objective grounding in the subject, only to be thrown back onto the predicate, where it does not return to itself but instead into the subject of the content. In traditional reasoning, thought begins with the subject as a fixed point, a stable foundation upon which predicates are added or attributed. The subject serves as the objective ground from which all knowledge flows, and reasoning moves outward from this base, attributing various qualities and relations to the subject. However, in the process of conceptual thinking, this grounding in the subject begins to dissolve. The subject, far from being a stable starting point, is now revealed to be intimately connected with the predicate—it is no longer a fixed, self-contained entity. Thought, no longer anchored in the subject, is instead drawn back into the predicate, which now becomes the essential focus of the thinking process.

In this shift, thought does not return to itself in the traditional sense, as a subject that can simply organize and categorize predicates externally. Instead, it is compelled to return to the subject of the content itself—the deeper, conceptual nature that unifies both subject and predicate. Rather than simply moving between fixed subject and predicate, thought must now grapple with the deeper unity of the two, recognizing that the subject is no longer independent but defined by its relationship with the predicate. The movement of thought is no longer linear, moving from subject to predicate in a simple external manner. Instead, thought is immersed in the unity of the concept, where the distinction between subject and predicate is not absolute but part of a dynamic, evolving process. Thus, thought does not simply return to its previous state but is pulled into the very content of the subject and predicate, where it must engage with the immanent movement of the idea itself.

This unfamiliar obstacle is largely the basis for the frequent complaints about the unintelligibility of philosophical texts, assuming the individual otherwise possesses the requisite conditions of education to understand them. The challenge presented by philosophical texts is often not one of lacking the proper intellectual tools or education, but rather the difficulty in engaging with the text’s inherent complexity. Philosophical works, particularly those dealing with abstract concepts, often demand a level of engagement that goes beyond surface-level reading. The ideas presented in these texts are not immediately accessible because they are not merely conveying facts or simple arguments; rather, they involve a deep, conceptual unfolding that requires the reader to move through layers of meaning and understanding. The difficulty arises from the nature of the ideas themselves, which do not lend themselves easily to simple comprehension. This is not because the reader is unprepared, but because the texts are structured in such a way that their meaning is revealed through a process of engagement, contemplation, and re-engagement.

In the aforementioned, we find the reason for the specific criticism often leveled at such texts: that they must be read multiple times before they can be understood—a critique often delivered as though it were an ultimate and irrefutable indictment. A common complaint directed at philosophical writings is their perceived opacity, with the accusation that they are unintelligible on the first reading and require multiple passes before the ideas can be properly grasped. This critique, however, frequently carries an air of finality, as if the necessity for rereading indicates a fundamental flaw in the text itself. Such critiques often fail to recognize that this difficulty is an essential characteristic of philosophical thinking. Philosophy does not aim to present ideas in a straightforward or easily digestible manner. Instead, it often unfolds concepts in such a way that understanding is not immediately available but requires the reader to delve deeper into the material, to reconsider their assumptions, and to work through the ideas as they evolve. The need for repeated reading is not an indication of a text’s failure, but rather a reflection of the depth and complexity of the philosophical concepts being explored.

The explanation of this phenomenon is evident from what has been said. When encountering a philosophical proposition, the reader’s expectations are shaped by their prior experience with conventional forms of reasoning. In standard propositions, there is a predictable relationship between subject and predicate, and the process of understanding typically involves applying this established structure—where the subject is a fixed, stable entity and the predicate adds a characteristic or property to it. The mind anticipates this familiar pattern, and the engagement with the proposition follows a straightforward path of analysis, where the subject and predicate are treated as separate elements to be connected through reasoning. This expectation is rooted in the conventional structure of logical propositions that are common in everyday thinking.

The philosophical content of the proposition, however, disrupts this expectation. Philosophy, particularly in its speculative form, does not adhere to the conventional relationship between subject and predicate. Philosophical propositions often transcend the typical boundaries of subject and predicate, revealing that the very distinction between them is part of a deeper, dialectical process. The content of a philosophical proposition challenges the reader’s presuppositions, as it does not conform to the usual format of an easily comprehensible subject-predicate structure. Instead of a simple addition of attributes to an independent subject, the content of the proposition suggests a unity, where the subject and predicate are not merely related but are interdependent, with each contributing to the unfolding of the other. The proposition, therefore, presents something unfamiliar that cannot be processed with the usual modes of thought.

The assumption turns out to be different from what was intended. The reader’s initial expectation, based on conventional propositional logic, is corrected by the philosophical proposition’s deeper structure. The mind, upon encountering this unexpected relationship, realizes that the proposition does not work in the same way as a typical logical statement. This correction of the assumption is not a superficial mistake but a fundamental shift in the way the proposition should be understood. It forces the mind to move beyond its initial, surface-level understanding and engage with the content on a deeper level, where the distinctions between subject and predicate are not as clear-cut, and the meaning emerges through the dialectical relationship between them.

This correction of the assumption compels the mind to revisit the proposition and apprehend it differently. The recognition of this deeper, more complex structure requires the thinker to reconsider their approach to the proposition. The proposition cannot simply be understood in the conventional manner—it demands a more active, engaged form of thinking. The mind must return to the proposition, not as a fixed, static statement but as a dynamic process of becoming. This requires a shift in the way knowledge is approached, where the thinker must embrace the unfolding, evolving nature of the proposition, rather than relying on the static structure of subject and predicate. The mind, in this process, is compelled to rethink its assumptions, revisiting the proposition with a new perspective that allows for a richer, more nuanced understanding of its content.

A difficulty to be avoided arises from the mixing of speculative and discursive approaches when, at one moment, what is said of the subject carries the meaning of its concept, while at another moment it holds only the significance of its predicate or accident. In philosophical thinking, it is crucial to maintain clarity about the nature of the propositions being made. Speculative thought, which seeks to uncover the deeper, essential unity of concepts, views the subject and predicate not as separate entities but as moments of a dynamic, evolving whole. The subject is not a static starting point, and the predicate is not a mere external addition; instead, both are interwoven in the dialectical movement of thought. When the subject is described in terms of its concept, it is understood in its full, essential nature, where the predicate is an intrinsic part of the subject’s becoming. In this mode, the distinction between subject and predicate dissolves, as both are understood as interconnected aspects of a living, self-developing concept.

However, if, at another moment, the subject is treated as merely the bearer of predicates—where the predicate is understood as an external characteristic or accident—the thinking process slips back into a more discursive approach. In discursive thinking, the subject is viewed as a fixed, independent entity to which external attributes are applied. This approach assumes a clear separation between subject and predicate, treating the subject as the foundational point upon which the predicates are merely added. The mixing of these two modes of thinking—speculative and discursive—creates confusion and disrupts the coherence of the argument. When the same subject is alternately treated as a dynamic, conceptual unity and as a fixed, independent entity, the logical flow of the proposition becomes fractured. The meaning of the subject is no longer consistent, and the distinction between the speculative and discursive modes undermines the unity of the thought process.

This alternation disrupts coherence between the two modes. The failure to maintain a consistent approach creates a breakdown in the internal logic of the proposition. Speculative thinking, which seeks to reveal the unity of subject and predicate within a living, evolving concept, is fundamentally incompatible with the static, external view of subject and predicate in discursive thinking. When these approaches are mixed, the result is an incoherent treatment of the subject, where its meaning shifts unpredictably between being understood as a dynamic, self-developing concept and a fixed, isolated entity. This disruption not only undermines the clarity of the proposition but also prevents the thinker from engaging with the subject in its full conceptual richness, ultimately hindering the process of genuine comprehension.

The speculative mode demands that every statement reflect the internal necessity and unity of the subject’s concept, while the discursive or reasoning mode allows for looser, external relationships between subject and predicate. In speculative thinking, the subject is understood not as a fixed entity but as a dynamic, self-developing concept, where both the subject and predicate are intertwined in a dialectical movement. Every proposition made in this mode must align with the internal necessity of the concept, meaning that the relationship between subject and predicate is not arbitrary or external, but emerges naturally from the nature of the subject itself. The unity of subject and predicate in the speculative mode reflects the inherent connection within the concept, revealing that the subject is not separate from its predicates but is defined by the unfolding of its own essence. The goal in speculative thinking is to express the full, immanent meaning of the concept through the unity of subject and predicate, where the two are inseparable and work together to illuminate the deeper reality of the idea.

On the other hand, the discursive or reasoning mode allows for looser, external relationships between subject and predicate. In this mode, the subject is typically seen as a stable, independent entity to which predicates are applied externally. The subject and predicate are treated as separate components, where the relationship between them is more contingent and less organically connected. Reasoning in this mode tends to categorize and organize the content in a more external, analytical manner, where the subject can be understood independently of its predicates, and the predicates are simply characteristics added to the subject. This approach is often useful for practical or everyday thinking but lacks the deeper, conceptual unity that is central to speculative thought.

The interference between these two methods can create confusion and undermine clarity. When speculative thinking and discursive reasoning are mixed or used interchangeably, it leads to confusion because the nature of the subject and predicate shifts unpredictably between these two modes. In the speculative mode, subject and predicate are unified in a dynamic, immanent relationship, whereas in the discursive mode, they are external and separate. When these two approaches are not carefully distinguished, the result is a lack of coherence in the proposition, as the relationships between subject and predicate become inconsistent. The subject may seem to both dissolve into its predicates and remain a stable, independent entity at different moments, leading to confusion and a lack of clarity. This interference between the two modes prevents the thinker from fully engaging with the proposition in its true speculative depth, hindering the development of a unified and coherent understanding of the concept.

Thus, only a philosophical exposition that rigorously excludes the conventional relationships between the components of a sentence—those of subject, predicate, and accidental attributes—would succeed in achieving a truly “plastic” form. Traditional propositional structures are built upon the conventional relationships between the subject, the predicate, and their accidental attributes, which frame the subject as a stable, independent entity and treat the predicate as something that merely adds characteristics to it. This conventional structure organizes thought into discrete, often static elements, where subject and predicate are positioned as separate components. However, when it comes to philosophical exposition, this structure can be limiting, as it fails to capture the dynamic, evolving nature of concepts and ideas. To truly express the fluid and organic movement of philosophical thought, it is necessary to move beyond this conventional framework. A “plastic” form, in this sense, refers to a mode of expression that allows the content of the idea to flow freely, without being constrained by the static divisions typically imposed by subject-predicate relationships.

In such a presentation, the unity and movement of the speculative idea would be presented without the interruptions caused by ordinary propositional structure. In speculative thinking, the relationship between subject and predicate is not one of fixed, external attribution but of internal unity, where the two components are organically interwoven. The speculative idea is not something that can be merely described by placing a predicate onto a subject; it is a living, dynamic process that unfolds and reveals itself through the dialectical movement of thought. Ordinary propositional structure, with its rigid separation between subject and predicate, interrupts this movement by forcing a static, external division onto the idea. By excluding these conventional relationships and adopting a more fluid, integrated form of exposition, the speculative idea can be presented as it truly is: a unified, self-developing whole. In such a presentation, the thought is not broken up into discrete components but is allowed to flow and evolve organically, with each moment of the idea contributing to the larger movement toward its realization. This approach facilitates a deeper understanding of the idea’s inner necessity and development, free from the interruptions imposed by traditional propositional structure.

Indeed, non-speculative thinking has its legitimacy, which, however, is not respected in the speculative sentence. Non-speculative thinking, which often operates within the traditional boundaries of subject-predicate relationships and logical structures, has its own validity and usefulness. It deals with content in a straightforward manner, attributing qualities to subjects and organizing thoughts into clear, defined statements. However, when moving into the realm of speculative thought, this conventional approach is insufficient. The speculative sentence, by contrast, is not content with merely attributing properties or describing relationships between fixed entities; it seeks to express a deeper, dynamic process where the unity of subject and predicate is not static but is continually unfolding and evolving. Non-speculative thinking, while valuable in many contexts, does not capture the organic, self-developing nature of the speculative idea, which is why it cannot be fully realized in the speculative sentence.

The lifting of the form of the sentence must not occur solely through the immediate content of the sentence. The speculative nature of the proposition is not achieved simply by articulating the content or stating the relationship between subject and predicate. If one merely presents the content as it is, without engaging with the deeper structure of the idea, the movement of thought remains external and superficial. The speculative sentence does not only present a fixed relationship between subject and predicate; it must also reveal the inner movement of thought that brings this relationship into being. The sentence itself must not just describe a static truth, but must express the process through which this truth is realized.

Rather, the opposing movement must be explicitly expressed; it must not only manifest as an internal hindrance but also as the concept’s return into itself. This is the crucial dialectical movement that gives the speculative sentence its power. The opposition within the concept—where the subject and predicate, while initially distinct, are drawn together and unified through a process of becoming—must be explicitly articulated. This opposition is not a contradiction that must be resolved externally, but an internal moment of the concept itself. The speculative sentence must not only present this opposition but show how it is resolved through the concept’s return into itself. The concept, in its dynamic movement, overcomes the initial distinction between subject and predicate, demonstrating that the apparent separation is only a moment in the larger unfolding of thought.

This movement, constituting what would traditionally be achieved by proof, is the dialectical movement of the sentence itself. In traditional logical thought, proof is often seen as an external process—one where a conclusion is demonstrated through a series of steps or arguments. However, in speculative thought, the “proof” is internal to the concept itself. It is not a separate, external demonstration but the movement of the concept’s own development. The dialectical movement that occurs within the sentence is itself the proof, as it reveals how the subject and predicate are not two separate, external entities but moments of a single, unfolding whole. This movement is the essence of the speculative proposition: it is not about providing external validation, but about showing how the concept realizes itself through its own internal development.

Only this constitutes the truly speculative element, and only the articulation of this movement qualifies as speculative presentation. The speculative element is not just an intellectual exercise but a dynamic, living process that is revealed through the sentence. The speculative presentation is not merely the presentation of a thought but the articulation of the movement of that thought as it unfolds. It is this internal, dialectical movement that qualifies as speculative thought—thought that does not merely observe or describe but actively engages with and reveals the process through which truth comes into being.

As a mere sentence, the speculative remains an internal impediment and the unrealized return of the essence into itself. A sentence, on its own, can only express a static form—merely presenting the content without fully capturing the dynamic movement of thought. While the speculative sentence aims to convey deeper truth, if it is not articulated with the full internal movement of the concept, it remains incomplete. It is trapped within itself, like an unfulfilled potential, unable to express the full dialectical process that is at its core. The essence, in this case, has not yet returned into itself; it is still externally presented, and the sentence only points toward what might be, rather than showing the concept’s full self-realization. The speculative nature of the sentence remains unrealized if the dialectical movement within it is not properly expressed, leaving it as a mere statement rather than a dynamic process of thought.

Therefore, we often find ourselves referred, by philosophical expositions, to this inner intuition, thereby foregoing the presentation of the dialectical movement of the sentence that we seek. In many philosophical writings, instead of presenting the dialectical movement of the speculative sentence, there is often a shift toward an appeal to “inner intuition” or a vague, unarticulated sense of understanding. Philosophers may direct readers to rely on their own intuitive grasp of the concept, assuming that the truth of the proposition can be internally apprehended without fully engaging with its dialectical process. This approach, while it may have some value in certain contexts, fails to provide the necessary exposition of the dynamic process through which the speculative idea unfolds. Rather than guiding the reader through the active, internal movement of the concept, such expositions leave the true speculative content hidden, unactualized, and only implicitly available through an assumed intuition. This bypassing of the dialectical movement undermines the full depth of speculative presentation, as it leaves the complex interplay of subject and predicate, of unity and opposition, unresolved and unexplored.

The sentence aims to express the truth, yet its essence lies in being a subject; as such, it is only the dialectical movement—this self-generating, self-guiding, and self-returning process. A sentence in philosophical discourse is not simply a static statement of facts; its true purpose is to convey the unfolding of truth through its internal movement. The essence of the sentence, therefore, is not found in its immediate expression but in the dynamic process that occurs within it. The sentence is not merely an external proclamation of truth; it is a subject in its own right, engaging with the concepts it presents and evolving through them. The truth of the sentence is realized not in its surface content, but in the dialectical movement through which the subject (the concept) develops, contradicts, and returns to itself. This self-generating, self-guiding movement is the lifeblood of the sentence; it is the dynamic process through which the concept unfolds, revealing its full meaning and essence. Without this movement, the sentence is incomplete, as it lacks the internal process that allows it to reflect the truth fully.

In conventional cognition, the proof provides this aspect of the articulated interiority. Traditionally, in logical or discursive reasoning, proof serves as the means by which a proposition’s internal structure is revealed. In this context, proof is often understood as an external demonstration of truth, where a conclusion is reached through a series of logical steps, showing how the initial statement is grounded in evidence and reasoning. The proof, in this conventional sense, provides a way of making visible the internal coherence and necessity of the argument. It articulates the movement of thought, guiding the mind through its process and ensuring that the truth of the proposition is supported and validated. However, in the speculative approach, proof is not an external, externalized process but an internal, dialectical unfolding that must be understood as part of the very concept it expresses.

However, with the separation of dialectic from proof, the concept of philosophical proof itself has been fundamentally lost. Over time, the dialectical movement has become increasingly separated from traditional concepts of proof in philosophical discourse. Proof, as understood in its conventional, formal sense, no longer serves to reveal the internal dialectical process of the concept. The separation of the dialectic—the inner, self-moving process—from the notion of proof has led to a loss of the true nature of philosophical proof. What remains are external demonstrations of correctness that fail to express the unfolding, organic development of the concept itself. In doing so, the very essence of philosophical proof is obscured, as it becomes reduced to something akin to a mere logical or formal demonstration. The rich, self-generating movement of thought that defines speculative philosophy is no longer represented in the traditional concept of proof, leaving a gap in how truth is conveyed and understood. Without the dialectic fully embedded in proof, the depth of philosophical thinking is lost, and with it, the true nature of the philosophical proposition.

It may be noted here that the dialectical movement also comprises propositions as its parts or elements. The dialectical process is not a mere static sequence of logical steps; it is a dynamic and evolving movement that includes propositions as its integral components. These propositions, rather than being isolated statements, are interconnected moments within the larger movement of thought. Each proposition contributes to the unfolding of the concept, shaping and being shaped by the dialectical process. The movement itself is not linear but recursive, as each proposition both reflects and advances the development of the idea. The propositions are not endpoints in themselves, but rather part of a continual process of self-realization and self-development. In this sense, the dialectical movement encompasses not only the content of the propositions but also the way in which they function within the whole, continually progressing toward a deeper unity.

This raises the apparent difficulty that it seems to perpetually recur, appearing as a fundamental challenge inherent to the process itself. At first glance, the dialectical movement might seem to be caught in an endless loop, with each proposition leading to the next in a perpetual cycle. This recursive nature can appear as a challenge, as it gives the impression that the movement is without an ultimate resolution or final conclusion. The idea of the dialectical process recurring may resemble the problematic structure of traditional proofs, where each argument or reason employed necessitates further substantiation, creating the potential for an infinite regress. In conventional proofs, each assertion requires a justification, and each justification, in turn, demands its own proof, leading to an endless chain of reasoning. This seemingly infinite regress is seen as a flaw in external reasoning, where one is unable to ground the truth in a final, ultimate basis.

However, this form of grounding and conditioning pertains to that type of proving which is external to dialectical movement and characteristic of external cognition. The infinite regress that arises in traditional proofs reflects the limitations of external cognition, which seeks to establish truth through a chain of external justifications or conditions. In external reasoning, each step must be validated by something beyond itself, leading to the need for further justification. This external form of reasoning, where every statement relies on something other than itself, is fundamentally different from the dialectical movement, where each proposition is both a result of and a step toward the deeper unfolding of the concept. In the dialectical process, the need for external justification disappears because each proposition is internally grounded in the movement of the concept itself. The apparent “recurrence” in the dialectical process is not a failure to resolve the idea but an essential aspect of its dynamic self-realization. The movement continuously builds upon itself, with each new proposition deepening the unity of the concept, rather than relying on an external source of validation. Thus, the dialectical movement is not an infinite regress, but rather an unfolding of the concept in its self-determined necessity.

Regarding dialectical cognition itself, its element is the pure concept, which inherently possesses a content that is entirely subject unto itself. Dialectical cognition is not concerned with abstract or external content that is merely applied to a subject through predication. Rather, its focus is on the concept itself, which carries its own meaning and development within its inherent structure. The pure concept, as the core of dialectical thought, does not derive its essence from something external, nor does it rely on an outside predicate to define or complete it. Instead, the concept is self-sufficient; its content is inseparable from its form. The concept, in its fullness, unfolds and develops through its own internal necessity, and it is this process of self-realization that drives the movement of dialectical cognition. The content of the concept is not something that merely attaches to it externally; it is the concept itself, in its evolving and self-determining nature.

Thus, no content appears as a foundational subject that relates to a predicate as its mere meaning. In traditional propositional logic, the subject is seen as a fixed, foundational entity, and the predicate is an attribute or characteristic that is externally added to it. The subject is often thought of as the starting point, with the predicate providing additional meaning or description. However, in dialectical cognition, this relationship between subject and predicate is upended. The subject is no longer a fixed foundation upon which predicates are merely applied. Instead, the concept is understood as a self-determining whole, where the subject and predicate are not separate or externally related but are moments of the same unfolding process. The content of the concept is not a predicate that defines the subject, but the subject itself is the living, self-determining content. There is no fixed, foundational subject that precedes the movement of the concept; the concept itself is what determines its content.

In this way, the sentence becomes immediately recognized as merely an empty form. Traditional sentences, structured by subject and predicate, convey meaning through the relationship between these two components. In dialectical cognition, however, this relationship no longer serves as a meaningful or substantive form. The sentence, when reduced to the mere structure of subject and predicate, becomes an empty shell, incapable of capturing the dynamic, self-generating nature of the concept. Without the internal movement of the dialectical process, the sentence is merely a formal expression without substance. It fails to engage with the content in a meaningful way, because it does not reflect the living, evolving nature of the concept that dialectical cognition aims to express. The sentence, in this case, is not a dynamic representation of thought, but a static form that fails to embody the essence of the concept. As such, it is recognized as an empty form—one that cannot convey the full depth and self-determining nature of the dialectical process.

Beyond sensory or representational selfhood, it is primarily the name as such—the proper name—that denotes a pure subject, a static and concept-less unity. A proper name, unlike other terms, does not carry a conceptual or definitional content. Instead, it simply refers to a particular entity, marking a specific point of reference without providing any inherent meaning or elaboration. The proper name is fixed, static, and devoid of further development—it denotes a subject but does not unfold the internal essence of that subject. It represents the subject as an unchanging, individual entity, without engaging in the dynamic, self-determining process that defines the subject in speculative thought. This static nature of the proper name contrasts sharply with the dynamic, self-reflective nature of concepts, which continually evolve and transform as they are engaged with. A proper name serves as a label, a point of reference, but it does not convey the deeper, conceptual content of the subject it names.

For this reason, it may, for example, be beneficial to avoid the term “God,” as this word functions not simultaneously as a concept but as a proper name, anchoring itself as the fixed repose of an underlying subject. The term “God,” when used in many traditional contexts, often functions as a proper name, signifying a particular entity or being without revealing the full conceptual depth that the concept of God might carry in a more philosophical or speculative sense. When “God” is treated as a proper name, it becomes static and isolated from the dynamic unfolding of conceptual content. It refers to an entity whose essence remains unexamined or unarticulated within the structure of the sentence, and as such, it may not capture the evolving, self-determining nature of the concept that philosophical discourse seeks to express. For philosophy, which engages with dynamic concepts, using the term “God” in this static way can limit the conceptual richness and depth that such a subject could potentially embody.

On the other hand, terms such as “being,” “the one,” “singularity,” or “subject” directly imply concepts. These terms are not merely labels or points of reference but carry inherent meaning and conceptual depth. They invite further exploration and engagement, as each of them points toward an unfolding, dynamic concept that is not static but evolving. The term “being,” for example, is not just a name for a particular entity, but a concept that encompasses the essence of existence itself and its relationship to thought. Similarly, “the one,” “singularity,” and “subject” are terms that imply internal movement and development—they are not fixed points of reference but starting points for a deeper investigation into the nature of reality. These concepts, unlike proper names, are not merely static but represent moments in a dialectical process that reveals the unfolding nature of the subject they denote.

Even when speculative truths are ascribed to the aforementioned subject, their content often lacks the immanent concept because it exists merely as a static subject. When speculative truths are attributed to a subject that is treated as a fixed and unchanging entity—whether it is “God,” “Being,” or another term—the deeper, dynamic movement of the concept is often neglected. The subject, in this case, is treated as something static, a point of reference, rather than as a living, evolving idea. As a result, the truths ascribed to this subject fail to reflect the full richness of their speculative content. Instead of unfolding through the dialectical process of self-development, these truths are reduced to static statements, incapable of capturing the living essence of the idea they represent. Consequently, these truths easily assume the form of mere edification, offering abstract or moral lessons without engaging with the deeper, conceptual essence that speculative philosophy demands. The truth becomes something to be admired or followed, but it lacks the self-moving, self-determining quality that makes it a genuine speculative insight.

From this perspective, the habit of interpreting speculative predicates according to the static form of a sentence—rather than as concepts and essences—is further exacerbated by shortcomings in philosophical exposition itself. The problem here lies not just in the interpretation of the content but in how it is presented. When philosophical expositions follow the traditional sentence structure, with its conventional division between subject and predicate, the speculative predicate risks being reduced to a mere description or characteristic rather than being understood as part of a dynamic, evolving concept. This approach treats speculative predicates as static attributes, severing them from their essential, immanent connection to the subject. It becomes an issue of misinterpretation, where the truth of the speculative proposition is obscured by an external framework that does not capture the internal movement of the concept. Philosophical exposition that relies on traditional, non-speculative structures can unintentionally undermine the very nature of speculative truth, rendering it superficial and static.

However, this issue can also be mitigated. The presentation must, in fidelity to the understanding of the speculative nature, adhere strictly to the dialectical form and include nothing that is not conceptualized and grounded in the concept itself. To avoid reducing speculative truths to static statements, the philosophical presentation must be rooted in the dialectical process itself. The dialectical form does not simply attribute qualities to subjects but reveals the internal movement of the concept, showing how the subject and predicate are unified in a dynamic, evolving process. The presentation of speculative truths must reflect this movement, allowing the content to unfold through its own internal necessity rather than being forced into a predetermined framework. Every element of the exposition must be grounded in the concept itself, meaning that no external, static explanations or interpretations can be introduced that would obscure the living, self-developing nature of the idea. By adhering to this dialectical approach, the speculative truth can be presented as a dynamic, immanent process, true to its essence and capable of revealing the deeper movement of thought.

Just as a reasoning approach can hinder philosophical study, so too can a reliance on presumed, unexamined truths that one claims to possess and considers unnecessary to revisit. In philosophical discourse, the assumption that certain truths are self-evident or beyond question can be as limiting as relying solely on a reasoning approach that never moves beyond surface-level deductions. Often, individuals or schools of thought hold these “truths” as fixed, immutable foundations—unquestioned premises that guide their thinking and interpretation. The danger lies in treating these truths as final or unassailable, without recognizing that their unquestioned status may obstruct deeper, more rigorous inquiry. When these truths are assumed to be already known, there is a tendency to invoke, evaluate, and judge based on them without considering their validity, origins, or relevance in the present philosophical context. Such an approach reduces philosophy to a mere exercise in reaffirming pre-established assumptions, rather than engaging with the evolving, dialectical nature of truth.

Those who hold such “truths” often believe they can invoke, evaluate, and judge using them without further scrutiny. This uncritical stance is often accompanied by a sense of intellectual confidence, where these truths are treated as unquestionable starting points for all reasoning and evaluation. The danger here is that, by treating certain beliefs as foundational and immune to scrutiny, philosophical inquiry is stifled. The process of critical examination, which is central to philosophy, is bypassed. The thinker may claim to possess knowledge of these truths and assume they are equipped to apply them to various situations or evaluate new concepts. However, by not engaging in the continuous process of revisiting, questioning, and refining these assumptions, the thinker remains in a state of intellectual stagnation.

From this perspective, it is especially urgent to restore a sense of earnest and rigorous engagement with philosophy. The need for an active, reflective approach to philosophical inquiry has never been more pressing. Rather than relying on established, unexamined truths, philosophy must be pursued with a sense of openness to discovery and challenge. It requires a mindset of continual questioning, where no assumption is beyond scrutiny and no conclusion is final. Philosophers must approach their study not as a means of reaffirming what they already believe, but as a dynamic process of uncovering new layers of meaning and understanding. This engagement with philosophy must be grounded in a commitment to rigorous, thoughtful examination, where each concept is allowed to unfold and develop through dialectical movement, and where truths are not possessed but continuously interrogated and re-explored.

In every other field of science, art, craft, or skill, there is a general acknowledgment that mastery requires considerable effort, learning, and practice. Whether in the creation of shoes, the execution of a painting, or the application of scientific method, it is widely understood that expertise is not inherent but must be cultivated over time. Mastery in any discipline is recognized as a result of diligent study, sustained effort, and often years of honing one’s craft. This process involves not only acquiring knowledge but also developing a deeper, more nuanced understanding of the subject matter through hands-on experience and continual refinement. One does not expect to excel in any of these fields simply by virtue of natural abilities; instead, one must engage in the laborious work of learning and applying the principles of the discipline.

By contrast, there appears to be a prevailing prejudice when it comes to philosophy: while no one would claim to make shoes merely because they have eyes, hands, leather, and tools, it is commonly assumed that anyone can philosophize and critique philosophy simply by virtue of possessing “natural reason.” In the realm of philosophy, however, there exists a widespread belief that the ability to reason is sufficient for engaging with the most profound questions and problems. The notion of “natural reason” often leads individuals to assume that anyone, by simply having a functioning mind and a capacity for thought, can immediately understand or critique philosophical ideas without the need for rigorous study or intellectual discipline. This assumption is not only unexamined but also potentially misleading, as it overlooks the depth and complexity that philosophy demands.

This attitude suggests that just as one measures shoes against one’s feet, one might measure philosophical truths against one’s innate sense of reason. In this view, philosophical inquiry is reduced to something accessible to all without the need for specialized knowledge or training. Just as shoes must be crafted with care and skill to fit properly, philosophical truths, too, require careful consideration, rigorous training, and intellectual development to be understood in their full depth. The idea that natural reason alone is sufficient to grasp philosophical concepts is a fallacy, as it fails to recognize the immense effort and intellectual labor that is involved in truly engaging with philosophy. Philosophy, unlike common sense or everyday reasoning, requires the cultivation of a specialized mode of thinking—one that is critical, reflective, and self-aware—and that mastery of philosophical thought, much like any other discipline, demands sustained and focused effort.

This misconception leads to the paradoxical belief that the absence of specialized knowledge and study is a qualification for possessing philosophy, and that philosophy somehow ceases to exist where rigorous inquiry begins. In many circles, there is a troubling assumption that philosophy is an intuitive or natural skill, one that anyone can engage in simply by virtue of having the capacity for thought. This belief wrongly elevates ignorance of the philosophical tradition to the status of qualification. In this view, philosophical engagement is seen as something accessible to all without the need for the discipline and study that other fields require. Philosophy, in this sense, is reduced to a casual, free-form activity that is disconnected from any structured or systematic approach. The implication is that once inquiry becomes rigorous, it ceases to be “true” philosophy, as if philosophy’s very essence lies in spontaneity or immediate, unexamined thought.

Philosophy is frequently regarded as a formal, contentless pursuit, with little appreciation for the fact that, in terms of substance, any truth in knowledge or science genuinely deserves that name only when it is generated through philosophy. This misunderstanding fails to grasp the essential role of philosophy in providing the foundation for all other forms of knowledge. Philosophy is not a mere adornment or accessory to other sciences, but the very discipline that shapes and grounds the concepts, principles, and methods that underlie them. The pursuit of truth in any field—be it natural science, social science, or mathematics—ultimately depends on philosophical inquiry to define the concepts, set the questions, and ensure that reasoning follows a coherent and rigorous path. Without philosophy, even the most advanced scientific endeavors are deprived of the conceptual clarity and intellectual foundation that give their findings real meaning.

Other sciences, regardless of how much they reason and experiment without philosophy, cannot attain vitality, spirit, or truth without its influence. While scientific methods may provide valuable empirical data or establish logical relationships, they cannot breathe life into their findings without philosophical insight. It is philosophy that gives science its vitality, its broader context, and its understanding of the underlying principles that govern reality. Without philosophy, science would be reduced to a mechanical accumulation of facts, devoid of the critical framework necessary to interpret and connect those facts in a meaningful way. The essence of truth, in any field, is not just the collection of isolated observations or discoveries, but the way in which those discoveries are integrated into a coherent and self-sustaining system of thought. Philosophy provides the intellectual framework that enables these insights to move beyond the superficial and to reach deeper, more meaningful truths.

In the realm of genuine philosophy, the arduous journey of intellectual development, with its intricate and profound movement through which the spirit attains knowledge, is often dismissed in favor of shortcuts. Philosophy, as a discipline, demands a long, sustained effort that engages deeply with the complexity of thought, carefully working through abstract concepts, contradictions, and nuances. This process is not instantaneous, nor is it simple. The development of philosophical insight requires rigorous study, patience, and a willingness to confront difficult questions without relying on facile answers. However, in contrast, there is a pervasive tendency to seek shortcuts—quick and easy answers that bypass the hard work of true intellectual engagement. This approach undermines the depth of philosophical inquiry and substitutes superficial understandings for genuine knowledge. Rather than embracing the difficult, self-reflective process that philosophy entails, many turn to shortcuts, whether in the form of unexamined assumptions, intellectual laziness, or the easy appeal of popular, yet uncritical, thought.

The immediate revelation of the divine and the so-called “common sense” of the untrained mind are frequently viewed as sufficient substitutes for dedicated philosophical inquiry and rigorous education. A widespread, yet misguided, attitude holds that certain truths—especially those pertaining to ethics, spirituality, or existence—are self-evident and accessible to all through intuition or common sense. This view dismisses the need for philosophical rigor, assuming that the “divine revelation” or innate reasoning capacities of the untrained mind are sufficient to grasp the complexities of deep, abstract concepts. It suggests that anyone, regardless of intellectual training or effort, can access the highest forms of knowledge simply by relying on personal insight or the “common sense” that comes from ordinary experience. This attitude, however, ignores the fact that genuine philosophical understanding requires more than just unexamined belief or intuition—it demands careful reasoning, logical analysis, and a sustained engagement with the tradition of thought that has developed over centuries.

This attitude parallels the misguided claim that chicory serves as an equivalent substitute for coffee. Just as chicory, though similar in some ways to coffee, cannot truly replicate the richness and depth of a real cup of coffee, the belief that “common sense” or immediate revelation can replace rigorous philosophical inquiry is similarly flawed. While chicory may be a stand-in for coffee in certain situations, it lacks the complexity, flavor, and nuanced qualities that define true coffee. Likewise, shortcuts like relying on unexamined intuition or spontaneous revelation may provide a quick sense of understanding, but they fall short of the intellectual richness and depth that genuine philosophical inquiry offers. They cannot provide the same level of insight or comprehension, as they fail to engage with the underlying structure and movement of thought that philosophy demands. Just as one would not mistake chicory for true coffee, one should not mistake intuitive beliefs or uncritical assumptions for genuine philosophical knowledge.

It is disheartening to observe how ignorance and unrefined thought—incapable of sustaining focus even on a single abstract proposition, let alone the coherence of multiple interrelated ideas—proclaim themselves as champions of intellectual freedom or even genius. In philosophy, the depth of reasoning and critical engagement required for genuine insight is often disregarded in favor of superficial claims to intellectual liberation. Some proudly declare themselves to be independent thinkers, celebrating their disregard for the rigorous study and careful reflection that philosophy demands. Yet, these self-ascribed “geniuses” often falter when confronted with the demands of abstract thought, struggling to grasp even a single philosophical proposition with clarity, much less navigate the complexities of interconnected ideas. Their supposed genius is not grounded in true intellectual achievement but in a misguided sense of freedom from discipline—an arrogance that confuses an inability to focus with the assertion of brilliance. In reality, their thinking remains fragmented and shallow, devoid of the depth and coherence that marks genuine philosophical inquiry.

This self-ascribed genius, which now flourishes in philosophy, once plagued the field of poetry. Historically, the same trend was evident in poetry, where individuals who lacked the discipline or understanding of the artform attempted to pass off their disconnected, unrefined thoughts as poetic genius. Rather than engaging with the tradition of poetic craft, they sought to express themselves through an impulsive, unfocused approach, assuming that this raw spontaneity was sufficient to convey deep meaning or emotion. In poetry, this approach yielded either trivial prose that lacked the essential qualities of poetry—such as rhythm, structure, and evocative imagery—or nonsensical ramblings when attempting to transcend mediocrity. Rather than creating art, these efforts produced shallow, incoherent expressions that lacked substance. The work failed to resonate because it was not rooted in the careful, reflective practice that true poetry demands.

Similarly, in philosophy, the abandonment of intellectual discipline for the sake of free-form expression leads to superficiality and confusion. The genuine philosopher is not someone who rejects the need for structured thought, but someone who embraces the rigorous process of developing and articulating complex ideas. True intellectual freedom does not emerge from a rejection of reasoning and depth, but from the ability to engage fully with ideas and allow them to develop coherently. When thought is unmoored from its grounding in rigorous intellectual tradition, it becomes just as meaningless as the disjointed prose of a poor poet. In both philosophy and poetry, genuine greatness requires the careful nurturing of thought and expression, not the abandonment of structure for the sake of arbitrary freedom.

Similarly, today’s “natural” philosophizing, which considers itself above the discipline of the concept, mistakes its lack of rigor for an intuitive or poetic mode of thought. This approach to philosophy often prides itself on being free from the constraints of formal reasoning or structured argumentation, claiming that its insights are more immediate, intuitive, or creative. It treats the systematic, dialectical nature of thought as something limiting, assuming that true philosophical insight arises from spontaneous, unfiltered inspiration. However, this self-styled liberation from intellectual rigor leads to confusion rather than clarity. The absence of clear reasoning, proper engagement with concepts, and logical development creates an intellectual environment where arbitrary combinations of disjointed ideas, drawn from a fragmented imagination, pass as profound insight. What is presented is often a collection of loosely connected thoughts that fail to develop coherently, rendering them both philosophically vacuous and intellectually superficial.

It produces arbitrary combinations of a disordered imagination, disrupted by the absence of clear reasoning—creations that are neither fully poetic nor genuinely philosophical, but an incoherent mix of both, amounting to neither “fish nor fowl.” This kind of philosophizing attempts to combine the creativity and intuition of art with the conceptual rigor of philosophy, yet does neither effectively. It imitates the aesthetic freedom found in poetry without mastering its artistic structure, and it takes on the guise of philosophical reasoning without adhering to its discipline. As a result, it falls short of both intellectual depth and artistic expression. The imaginative combinations it produces are superficial, relying on flashy ideas that lack the necessary substance and coherence to stand as genuine philosophical or poetic creations. Instead of advancing a clear and rigorous argument, these efforts are an incoherent amalgamation of concepts, offering neither the depth of true philosophy nor the emotional resonance of authentic art.

Such efforts fail to honor the depth and discipline required for true philosophical or artistic excellence. Philosophy, like art, demands a deep commitment to structure, rigor, and intellectual clarity. True excellence in either domain comes from the careful cultivation of thought, the patient development of ideas, and the mastery of the tools and techniques that allow for the clear articulation of those ideas. The superficial blending of intuitive, unfocused imagination with the serious pursuit of knowledge does not contribute to meaningful philosophical discourse or artistic expression. Instead, it detracts from the true essence of both by treating them as interchangeable, when in reality they require their own distinctive modes of engagement. To genuinely philosophize or create art is to engage with the world of ideas or the sensory realm with discipline, respect for the craft, and the willingness to engage with complexity. The “natural” philosophizing that rejects this discipline ultimately amounts to nothing more than an empty imitation, lacking the depth and rigor that define true excellence.

The so-called “natural philosophizing,” flowing comfortably within the channel of common sense, often delivers rhetorical presentations of trivial truths. This form of philosophizing typically embraces simplicity, focusing on ideas that are easily accessible and broadly accepted by society. It operates within the comfortable bounds of common sense, presenting ideas that are familiar and unchallenged, relying more on rhetorical flourish than on substantive intellectual rigor. While such an approach may seem appealing due to its accessibility, it often sacrifices the depth and complexity that genuine philosophical inquiry demands. The ideas presented, while they may seem true on the surface, are often shallow and lack the intellectual force to truly engage with the complexities of the world or the deeper questions of existence.

When confronted with the insignificance of these truths, it insists that their true meaning and depth lie in the heart, claiming that this should be evident to others as well. Faced with the lack of intellectual substance in its ideas, this type of philosophizing deflects criticism by invoking emotional or sentimental appeals. It suggests that the true value of its insights lies not in their rational or conceptual depth but in their resonance with the heart or spirit. It assumes that the meaning of these “truths” is self-evident to anyone who approaches them with the right emotional openness or sincerity. In doing so, it shifts the focus from intellectual engagement to emotional experience, claiming that the real understanding of its ideas comes from an unreflective, intuitive connection to the heart. This often leads to a sense of superiority or condescension toward those who seek a deeper, more rigorous understanding, as though intellectual critique is irrelevant in the face of “heartfelt” wisdom.

It assumes that invoking concepts like the innocence of the heart or the purity of conscience suffices, as these are supposedly ultimate principles against which no argument can be raised or further demand made. By appealing to abstract concepts like “innocence” or “purity,” this mode of thought attempts to elevate itself beyond the need for logical justification or rigorous argumentation. These concepts are treated as self-evident, almost sacred principles that supposedly require no further explanation or examination. To question them is seen as an affront to something higher than reason, as though these ideals are beyond the reach of intellectual critique. However, this view overlooks the fact that such abstract concepts, far from being immune to scrutiny, require careful philosophical examination to understand their true nature and implications. The assumption that these principles are ultimate and unassailable simply because they evoke emotional appeal or common approval leads to a stagnation of thought and a dismissal of the intellectual work needed to explore their complexities. In this way, “natural philosophizing” falls short, as it substitutes shallow emotional resonance for the depth of true intellectual inquiry.

However, the task is not to leave these supposed treasures buried within but to bring them forth into the open. The concepts and “truths” that are often invoked in natural philosophizing may seem intuitive or self-evident to many, but their real significance requires the effort of articulation and critical examination. These supposed treasures—abstract notions like “innocence,” “purity,” or “common sense”—are not to be left untouched in their vague, unexamined form but should be brought into the light of philosophical discourse, where they can be rigorously explored. The task of philosophy is to subject these so-called ultimate truths to scrutiny, to expose their inner complexities, contradictions, and assumptions, rather than treating them as settled matters. By doing so, philosophy seeks to transform what is often presented as self-evident or sacrosanct into concepts that can be meaningfully understood and debated.

The effort to articulate such “ultimate truths” has long been unnecessary, as they are already present in catechisms, proverbs, and similar sources. For centuries, these truths have been passed down through tradition, often taking the form of simple moral lessons or culturally ingrained maxims. While these sources may serve as a useful starting point for practical living or social cohesion, they do not engage with the philosophical rigor that allows us to comprehend the underlying concepts fully. These sayings and proverbs, though helpful in guiding everyday behavior, are not sufficient to grasp the deeper implications of their content. They remain, at best, vague representations of what might be considered truth, lacking the precision, coherence, and internal logic that philosophy demands. Therefore, the real challenge of philosophy is not to regurgitate these truths, but to bring them into the realm of reasoned discourse, where they can be fully realized and properly understood.

It is easy to challenge such truths by exposing their vagueness or contradictions, often demonstrating within their own framework the opposite of what they claim. When confronted with the so-called “ultimate truths” presented by natural philosophizing, one can quickly reveal their inconsistencies. These truths often prove to be too vague to hold up under scrutiny or to be internally coherent. In their efforts to encapsulate the complexity of human experience or the divine in simple terms, these ideas tend to obscure more than they clarify. By examining these concepts carefully, one can often show that they contradict themselves or fail to provide the necessary depth. Rather than providing definitive answers, they open up further questions and reveal the limitations of common-sense reasoning. This process of exposing contradictions is a crucial part of the philosophical endeavor, as it not only challenges accepted wisdom but also invites deeper, more careful reflection.

In their attempt to extricate themselves from the confusion thereby created, proponents of this natural philosophizing often fall into deeper contradictions. When confronted with these contradictions, those who espouse simplistic or unexamined ideas tend to react defensively. Unable to engage with the complexity revealed in their own positions, they often resort to evasive tactics, claiming that their stance is self-evident or beyond question. This is where the paradox arises: rather than confronting the contradictions and attempting to resolve them, these thinkers insist that their ideas are so obviously true that any challenge to them is dismissed as mere sophistry. This defense mechanism, though frequently employed, only serves to deepen the philosophical confusion by closing off further inquiry and reflection. It marks a retreat into intellectual complacency, where the mere assertion of self-evidence is considered sufficient to uphold a position.

This may lead them to resort to the dismissive assertion that their stance is self-evident and everything else is mere sophistry—a common defensive reaction of untrained reason against cultivated understanding. The term “sophistry” is often weaponized as a way to dismiss reasoned critique, reducing all challenging perspectives to nothing more than deceptive arguments. Similarly, terms like “sophistry” serve as catchphrases for common sense, allowing it to resist the structured, logical inquiry that philosophy demands. By labeling a position as sophistic, these individuals protect themselves from the discomfort of engaging with difficult, uncomfortable truths. This defensive stance prevents meaningful dialogue and stifles intellectual progress. Much like how “dreaminess” is used to disparage philosophical thought as impractical or overly abstract, such dismissals reduce complex intellectual endeavors to mere labels, hindering genuine understanding. These reactions are symptomatic of an intellectual environment where untrained reason resists the deeper, more rigorous exploration that is essential for philosophical development.

By appealing to feeling as their ultimate authority—their “inner oracle”—such thinkers often cut off dialogue with those who disagree, declaring they have nothing further to say to anyone who does not share the same sentiments. In this approach, feeling becomes the final arbiter of truth, and reason is sidelined in favor of subjective, emotional conviction. This reliance on personal feeling, rather than rational discourse, shuts down any possibility of meaningful exchange with those who hold different views. The moment an individual invokes feeling as the sole basis for their position, they effectively foreclose the opportunity for dialogue, declaring that no further discussion is needed if others do not share the same emotional resonance. This attitude not only discourages intellectual engagement but also isolates the thinker, creating a barrier to mutual understanding and cooperation. It becomes an echo chamber, where only like-minded voices are welcomed, while differing perspectives are dismissed without due consideration.

This attitude, in effect, tramples upon the very roots of humanity. Human nature is fundamentally social and communicative, oriented toward the exchange of ideas and the pursuit of common understanding. At the heart of human existence is the desire to find common ground with others, to communicate and share in the same rational framework. This shared understanding is what allows individuals to connect with one another on a deeper level, beyond mere surface-level interactions or isolated feelings. The true existence of human consciousness is realized in the collective achievement of shared meaning and mutual recognition. When communication is reduced to a private emotional experience, it undermines this communal aspect of human nature, cutting individuals off from the rich, interconnected web of shared rationality and discourse that forms the foundation of human life.

To remain confined to feeling and rely solely on it for communication is to regress into the inhuman, the animalistic, which lacks the shared rationality essential to human connection and discourse. Human beings, by their very nature, are rational creatures. Our ability to think critically, reason logically, and engage with others through shared concepts and ideas is what distinguishes us from other animals. When one turns inward and clings solely to personal feeling as the basis for truth and communication, they abandon the higher faculties that enable humans to engage in meaningful, reasoned dialogue. This retreat into private feeling, where thought is not shared, is a regression into a more primitive form of existence—one that lacks the depth, complexity, and mutual respect that rational discourse affords. It is a form of isolation that strips away the essential connections between individuals, reducing them to isolated islands of subjective experience. In doing so, it undermines the essence of what it means to be human, to live in a world of shared understanding and mutual intellectual engagement.

When asked for a “royal road” to science, the most convenient suggestion might be to rely on common sense and, to keep pace with the times and with philosophy, read reviews of philosophical writings—or even just the prefaces and first paragraphs of these works. In a world where immediacy and convenience often dominate intellectual culture, the idea of following a straightforward path to knowledge can be highly appealing. It’s tempting to think that, by simply reading summaries or introductory sections of philosophical texts, one can grasp the essential principles upon which the entire system is built. Prefaces, often crafted by authors to offer a brief overview of the work’s scope, can seem like neat distillations of complex ideas, making them appear as though they provide an adequate entry point into the deeper philosophy contained within the text. Reviews of philosophical works are similarly attractive in this regard, offering condensed interpretations and analyses that seem to capture the essence of the original works. These convenient shortcuts promise that one can stay abreast of current philosophical trends without delving deeply into the original, complex ideas.

However, these often provide the general principles on which everything rests. The problem with relying solely on reviews or introductory materials is that they often reduce complex systems of thought to mere skeletons, providing an outline without the fullness of the argument or the depth of reasoning that underpins them. While reviews and prefaces might summarize the major themes or principles of a work, they cannot convey the nuanced progression of thought, the careful dialectical movement, or the internal contradictions that form the basis of true philosophical inquiry. These oversimplified versions of philosophical ideas can give the illusion of understanding, but they fail to engage with the content in a way that allows for genuine insight or critical reflection. They gloss over the complexities and subtleties of the arguments, offering a shallow, partial understanding rather than a comprehensive grasp of the subject matter.

Reviews, alongside historical notes, also offer judgments that, because they are judgments, claim to stand above what they critique. In addition to summarizing content, reviews often provide evaluations, presenting the ideas being discussed as either valid or flawed according to the reviewer’s perspective. These judgments, while valuable for providing insights into the reception and influence of philosophical works, can sometimes present themselves as final and definitive. The act of critiquing a philosophical text can give the reviewer a sense of authority, as though they possess a vantage point that allows them to judge the worth of the work in its entirety. Yet, this external, evaluative stance risks overlooking the deeper, internal logic of the original work. By treating these judgments as standing above the text they critique, reviewers often miss the subtleties of the argument and fail to engage with the ideas in their own terms. Philosophical critique, when performed in this manner, can become a detached, external commentary rather than a meaningful, integrated part of the dialectical process of understanding. It may contribute to intellectual discourse, but it does not replace the need for firsthand, rigorous engagement with the original material.

This ordinary approach may present itself humbly, as if in a housecoat. At first glance, this approach may appear modest, even self-effacing. It assumes the guise of simplicity, offering itself as an accessible and unpretentious mode of thinking, free from the burdens of rigorous philosophical inquiry. It can seem like a comfortable, familiar path—one that is not concerned with the demands of deep intellectual engagement but rather emphasizes ease and immediacy. This form of thinking is often dressed in the everyday language of common sense, assuming that wisdom is readily available to anyone who can access their own intuition or lived experience.

But in the high-priestly robes of loftiness, it takes the guise of the eternal, sacred, and infinite, walking a path that proclaims itself to be already in the center of being—a wellspring of genius, deep original ideas, and flashes of profound thought. When this same approach adopts a more elevated stance, it cloaks itself in the trappings of authority and grandeur. It elevates its simplicity into something profound, claiming to possess insight into eternal truths, sacred principles, and universal wisdom. The once humble and accessible approach becomes a self-proclaimed bearer of deep, original ideas, parading itself as the source of philosophical genius. It presents itself not as a mere tool for everyday reasoning but as a gateway to profound understanding, placing itself at the center of the universe—at the very heart of existence and truth. The language used in these cases often carries a tone of finality and absolutism, evoking an image of an almost divine connection to ultimate knowledge.

Yet, just as such profundity does not reveal the true source of essence, these intellectual fireworks do not reach the heavens of true understanding. Despite its elevated rhetoric, this mode of thinking fails to achieve genuine depth or insight. It may sparkle with intellectual fireworks—ideas that shine brightly for a moment but ultimately lack substance or coherence. These bursts of apparent profundity do not lead to true understanding, for they remain disconnected from the rigorous, disciplined process of genuine philosophical inquiry. They do not reach the heights of authentic wisdom, as they are grounded not in careful reasoning or conceptual clarity, but in the superficial allure of easy answers and unexamined assumptions. What is presented as profound often turns out to be little more than smoke and mirrors—an illusion of depth that dissipates under closer scrutiny. True philosophical understanding is not found in flashes of inspiration or lofty proclamations, but in the patient, systematic exploration of ideas, where every insight is earned through careful examination and rigorous thought.

True insights and scientific knowledge can only be attained through the work of the concept. The concept, as the fundamental tool of philosophical reasoning, is the only means by which genuine understanding can be achieved. It is through the development and application of the concept that knowledge becomes structured, systematic, and capable of uncovering the deeper truths of the world. Unlike other forms of knowledge that may remain vague, superficial, or ungrounded, the concept provides the framework for genuine scientific inquiry, allowing for the rigorous, disciplined exploration of ideas. It is through the concept’s internal logic and movement that we can approach the essence of truth and knowledge.

The concept alone can generate a universality of knowledge that is neither the vague and barren generality of common sense, nor the unrestrained universality of reason, corrupted by laziness and self-conceit disguised as genius. Common sense, while rooted in everyday experience, remains limited in its scope, offering generalizations that are often too simplistic to capture the complexities of reality. It lacks the depth and specificity required for true philosophical understanding. On the other hand, the universality of reason, when left unchecked by the rigor of the concept, can devolve into empty speculation. In such cases, reason becomes an unfocused, self-indulgent activity, clouded by intellectual laziness and the arrogance of assuming brilliance without the work of careful analysis. This distorted form of reasoning masquerades as profound insight, but in reality, it offers nothing more than empty assertions.

Instead, the concept leads to truth in its native form—a cultivated and complete knowledge, capable of becoming the possession of all self-conscious reason. The work of the concept does not merely provide superficial answers or vague intuitions—it enables the development of knowledge that is thorough, precise, and fully grounded in reason. This knowledge is not reserved for a select few but is accessible to all individuals capable of engaging in the disciplined practice of thought. It is knowledge that, once cultivated, can be understood and adopted by anyone willing to follow the rigorous process of intellectual development. The concept transforms knowledge from something arbitrary or subjective into a shared, objective reality, where truth is not merely a matter of personal opinion but a product of systematic, universal reasoning. Through the concept, we achieve not just isolated facts, but a cohesive, complete understanding of the world that stands as the possession of all who engage with it.

By placing the existence of science in the self-movement of the concept, I recognize that this approach diverges significantly—and indeed is contrary—to many contemporary notions about the nature and form of truth. This divergence is not merely a minor difference in perspective but a fundamental shift in how truth and science are understood. In the modern world, where truth is often seen as something static, external, and divisible, this philosophical approach proposes that truth is dynamic, self-generating, and internally unified. It rejects the simplification of truth into something easily grasped through common sense or empirical observation, and instead insists that true knowledge arises through the rigorous development of the concept, through a movement that both embodies and transcends what is known. This view, while deeply rooted in the tradition of speculative philosophy, stands in contrast to the more conventional, fragmented notions of truth that dominate contemporary thought.

Such a divergence might seem to promise an unfavorable reception for an attempt to present the system of science in this determination. It is clear that this radical approach may face skepticism or rejection, particularly from those accustomed to seeing truth as something immediate and easily accessible, or from those who view scientific inquiry as a process of uncovering objective facts that exist independent of the conceptual development through which they are apprehended. The idea that science exists within the movement of the concept and that it requires deep, abstract engagement rather than straightforward empirical verification may seem esoteric or impractical to many. Yet, despite these challenges, the commitment to understanding truth through the unfolding of the concept remains a powerful and necessary endeavor in philosophy.

Yet I may take comfort in the fact that, for instance, the excellence of Plato’s philosophy has sometimes been ascribed to its scientifically worthless myths, even though there were times—called “times of enthusiasm”—when Aristotle’s philosophy was esteemed for its speculative depth. History offers reassurance that philosophical ideas which seem difficult or unorthodox often find their place in intellectual history, despite initial resistance. Plato’s works, despite the seeming irrelevance of some of his mythological elements, have been regarded as paragons of philosophical thought, not because of their literal accuracy, but because of the profound insights they convey about the nature of reality, existence, and knowledge. Even though Plato’s myths were often criticized for lacking scientific rigor, the depth and scope of his philosophical exploration have ensured his lasting influence.

During those times—called “times of enthusiasm”—when Aristotle’s philosophy was esteemed for its speculative depth, there was a recognition that speculative philosophy, too, could provide genuine insights into the workings of the world, even if it did not conform to the standards of empirical science. These periods, characterized by a kind of intellectual fervor, highlighted the importance of speculative thought in the pursuit of truth. They reminded us that deep, reflective inquiry—rooted in the dialectical process of the concept—has a unique ability to illuminate the complexities of existence in ways that more immediate or empirical forms of knowledge cannot.

Even amidst the confusion often produced by ecstatic inspiration, this misunderstood ecstasy was, in truth, nothing but the pure concept. The apparent chaos and lack of structure that sometimes accompany intense intellectual or spiritual experiences are not, in themselves, indications of a lack of depth or substance. Instead, they may represent the very dynamic movement of the concept as it transcends its initial state of abstraction and engages with the complexity of reality. The so-called “ecstasy” of philosophical thought—whether in the form of speculative inspiration, intense enthusiasm, or sudden insight—represents the unfolding of the concept, the very process by which true knowledge is generated. Despite the confusion that may arise in these moments, they are often the site of genuine philosophical breakthroughs, where the concept reveals itself in its fullness and vitality.

Moreover, the excellence of contemporary philosophy places its value in scientific rigor. Modern philosophy, particularly within the realm of analytic thought or empirical studies, is often evaluated by its adherence to methodical precision and logical clarity. Philosophers today are frequently lauded for their ability to construct well-reasoned arguments, systematically address problems, and maintain consistency with established intellectual standards. Scientific rigor, in this sense, has become synonymous with philosophical excellence, as it provides a foundation for credibility and intellectual respectability. Whether through formal logic, empirical research, or analytic discourse, contemporary philosophy demands that ideas be examined with a level of scrutiny that is undeniable in its pursuit of truth. Even when philosophical ideas diverge from mainstream scientific principles, they are often judged and validated based on their internal coherence and their ability to hold up under rigorous analysis.

Even when others interpret it differently, it asserts itself through that rigor. Philosophy’s commitment to scientific rigor allows it to endure even in the face of opposition or misunderstanding. Those who critique or misinterpret philosophical work may attempt to reduce it to vague abstractions or irrelevant concepts. Yet, the true philosophical approach continues to assert itself through the strength of its method—through the discipline and systematic process by which it develops and refines ideas. The content of philosophy, when grounded in rigorous thinking, cannot be easily dismissed or undermined. It maintains its integrity not merely through the ideas it presents, but through the disciplined manner in which these ideas are explored and defended. Philosophy, in this sense, becomes a dynamic force that challenges superficial or ill-informed interpretations, continuing to stand firm on its methodological foundation.

Thus, I may hope that this attempt to vindicate science for the concept and to present it in its proper element will find acceptance through the intrinsic truth of the matter itself. As I attempt to reframe science through the lens of the concept, emphasizing its self-generating and self-reflective nature, I do so with the belief that the true value of this approach will ultimately reveal itself. The task is not simply to defend science, but to ensure that its philosophical foundation is properly understood. If the concept is embraced as the true form of scientific inquiry, the true nature of knowledge will unfold with clarity. This philosophical vindication of science is not a superficial defense, but an articulation of the deeper essence that grounds and drives it forward. It seeks to present science not as an external, detached practice, but as an organic, self-evolving process that emerges from the very nature of thought and concept itself.

We must trust that truth has the nature to prevail when its time has come and that it never emerges too early or finds an unprepared audience. The unfolding of truth is not a matter of arbitrary timing, but of intrinsic readiness. Truth, in its full realization, reveals itself when the intellectual environment is prepared to receive it. This may take time, and the process may involve resistance, misinterpretation, or neglect. However, truth is never prematurely revealed; it emerges when the philosophical and intellectual climate has matured sufficiently to understand and appreciate it. In this way, philosophy and science both evolve within a broader historical context, and their ultimate truth becomes apparent only when the time is ripe for its revelation. This is the nature of intellectual progress: it unfolds gradually, sometimes imperceptibly, but always in harmony with the necessary conditions for its understanding. When that time arrives, it cannot be ignored, for the truth will speak for itself.

The individual also needs this effect to validate what was initially their private concern, experiencing their conviction as something universal. The journey of philosophical inquiry often begins as a deeply personal endeavor, with the thinker wrestling with abstract concepts or profound questions in solitude. In this initial stage, the work of the individual remains isolated, a product of their private reflections and inner struggles. However, for the individual to feel that their insights hold true significance, they must find a way to share them with others. This sharing, in turn, is not merely about external validation; it is about realizing that their personal convictions resonate universally. In this moment, what was once an intimate insight becomes part of the collective intellectual life, a contribution to the broader understanding of humanity. The thinker seeks not only personal conviction but a sense of belonging to a larger community of reason, where their ideas are seen as relevant and applicable to others. This transformation from private thought to universal knowledge is essential for the philosopher’s sense of fulfillment, as it brings a sense of shared understanding and collective recognition.

However, we must often distinguish the public from those who claim to represent and speak for it. The relationship between intellectual works and their reception is rarely straightforward. While the public can be seen as the broader audience or collective of individuals, it is often the case that certain self-appointed spokespeople emerge, claiming to embody the voice of the public. These representatives may assert their authority and competence in interpreting philosophical works, often claiming to understand and convey the public’s sentiments or needs. However, their claims do not always reflect the true reactions or feelings of the public at large. The public, as a collective body, reacts to philosophical works in diverse and sometimes contradictory ways, which may differ from the claims of those who present themselves as the spokespersons of the public’s will or judgment.

The public sometimes reacts differently—even oppositely—to these self-proclaimed representatives. While the representatives speak with confidence, presuming to understand and define the collective mindset, the actual public may have a subtler or even opposing response to the same works. The so-called “representatives” may attempt to direct the public’s opinion, yet their interpretations or judgments may fail to align with the broader sentiments of the people. The public’s response, often quieter and more reflective, may not match the louder, more assertive voices of those who claim to speak on its behalf. This dynamic creates a tension between what is publicly declared and what is truly felt by the public, revealing the limits of those who presume to represent it without fully understanding its complexity or diversity of thought.

While the public may humbly attribute its inability to appreciate a philosophical work to its own shortcomings, these representatives—confident in their competence—lay all blame on the author. The public often shows a degree of humility in acknowledging its difficulty in understanding complex ideas, recognizing its own limitations without casting blame on the philosopher or the work itself. In this humility, the public may be more open to future engagement or understanding. However, those who position themselves as the representatives of the public, confident in their own interpretations and judgments, typically shift the blame entirely onto the philosopher. They claim that the work is inaccessible or flawed, attributing the public’s inability to appreciate it not to the reader’s limitations, but to the author’s failure to communicate effectively. This creates an environment in which the philosopher’s work is not given the benefit of the doubt or treated with respect, but rather dismissed through external criticisms that do not address the substance of the ideas themselves.

The effect on the public is quieter than the noisy actions of these individuals, who, like the dead, bury the dead. The public’s response to philosophical works is often less immediate, more contemplative, and more patient. While the representatives of the public make a great noise, offering quick judgments and sweeping declarations, the true effect on the public is more gradual and less visible. It is a quieter, more internal process—one in which individuals may come to recognize the value of the work over time, as they wrestle with the ideas presented and integrate them into their own understanding. The noisy declarations of the representatives, however, only serve to obscure the deeper, quieter effect the work has on the public. In this way, the representatives are like those who, in their haste to bury the dead, do not allow space for the living ideas to emerge, reflect, and grow. Their noise is a distraction from the real, slow transformation that occurs when ideas are allowed to be pondered and understood by the public.

In an age when general understanding is more cultivated, curiosity sharper, and judgment more quickly formed, the rejection of new ideas often comes swiftly. The rapid pace of modern intellectual culture, with its emphasis on quick judgment and immediate analysis, leads to an environment in which new ideas face immediate scrutiny. The ease with which information circulates today—whether through the internet, social media, or other forms of mass communication—has fostered a culture of instant opinions and fast conclusions. The speed with which judgments are made can sometimes obscure the true value of ideas, as hasty rejections are often based on surface-level impressions rather than thoughtful engagement. In this climate, bold new ideas or unconventional propositions can be swiftly dismissed, without the time needed for proper consideration or deeper understanding. The very accessibility of ideas, while democratizing knowledge, has also resulted in an atmosphere where fleeting reactions take precedence over sustained reflection.

Yet this immediate reaction must be distinguished from the slower, more enduring effect of ideas that correct the fleeting impressions of bold declarations and dismissive critiques. While the initial rejection or criticism of an idea may be swift and widely accepted, this reaction is not necessarily final or conclusive. Over time, the immediate impressions formed by hasty critiques are often corrected as the true substance of an idea begins to unfold. The passage of time allows for deeper reflection and a reconsideration of initial judgments. Many ideas that were once dismissed or misunderstood in their own time have later been recognized for their lasting value, while others, initially celebrated, have proven to be mere flashes in the pan. The deeper, more enduring effect of ideas is often only realized as they continue to resonate and engage with subsequent generations of thinkers, thereby proving their intellectual worth over time.

Some works eventually find their contemporaries, even if it takes time, while others—despite initial attention—fail to leave any legacy. The fate of many intellectual works is not determined by their immediate reception but by their capacity to endure beyond the time of their creation. Some works, despite being initially overlooked or underappreciated, ultimately find their audience and gain recognition as their true significance becomes clear. These works often possess an intrinsic quality that transcends the initial critiques, and in time, they become central to the intellectual discourse of later periods. Conversely, there are works that, despite receiving attention or acclaim at the outset, fail to leave a lasting impact because their ideas were not sufficiently grounded in enduring truth or relevance. Their initial prominence fades as they fail to engage meaningfully with the deeper questions of the age, and they are eventually forgotten or overshadowed by more enduring contributions to knowledge. Thus, the true test of an idea’s value is not how it is received at first, but how it endures in the face of time and continued reflection.

In an era where the generality of spirit has gained such strength and individuality has, as is proper, become correspondingly less significant, the collective breadth and cultivated richness of spirit hold their rightful place and are rightly demanded. As human civilization advances, the individual, once the center of certain intellectual pursuits, now finds themselves part of a much larger and more intricate tapestry. The focus has shifted from isolated personal achievement to the collective wisdom and development of the broader intellectual and cultural spirit. In modern times, the power of the collective—the shared knowledge, the interwoven ideas, and the collaborative progress of humanity—takes precedence over individual distinction. While the contributions of individuals are still valuable, they are increasingly seen as part of a larger movement of thought and cultural development. This shift reflects the growing complexity and interconnectedness of knowledge, where the synthesis of ideas from diverse minds is more important than the elevation of any single individual. The individual’s role, while crucial, becomes more modest, serving as a part of the whole rather than standing apart as an isolated force.

Consequently, the share of the individual in the overall work of spirit is necessarily modest. The recognition of one’s individual contribution is increasingly secondary to the contributions made to the broader development of collective knowledge. The work of spirit, the ongoing intellectual and cultural development of humanity, is a collaborative endeavor that transcends the efforts of any one person. While individuals may spark ideas or make significant contributions, these efforts are woven into the larger fabric of human progress. The greatness of spirit is no longer seen in the achievements of isolated minds but in the accumulated knowledge and understanding shared by all. Thus, the individual must acknowledge their place within the larger movement, accepting that their contribution, though valuable, is but a part of a much greater whole.

This reality, intrinsic to the nature of science itself, requires the individual to embrace self-forgetfulness—to focus on becoming and doing what they can, without undue concern for personal recognition or achievement. The true spirit of scientific inquiry demands a certain humility. The individual is called to serve the greater purpose of knowledge and understanding, not for personal fame or glory, but for the advancement of human thought. The pursuit of science, philosophy, and intellectual development is not about seeking personal recognition or accolades, but about contributing to a larger, shared body of knowledge that belongs to humanity as a whole. In this process, the individual must transcend their own ego, embracing the work of science and philosophy as a collective endeavor. The focus must be on what can be done in service to the greater movement of thought, and not on the transient rewards of personal achievement. The true spirit of scientific and philosophical inquiry lies in the selflessness of contributing to the ever-growing body of human knowledge, understanding that the work is more important than the individual recognition that might accompany it.

At the same time, less must be demanded of the individual, just as they themselves must temper their expectations and demands upon themselves. In the context of modern intellectual life, the individual must adopt a more measured approach, recognizing that the true value of their contributions lies not in their personal prominence but in their participation within a larger intellectual framework. The individual, as part of the vast collective of thinkers, must understand that their role is not to demand excessive recognition or self-importance, but rather to humbly engage in the pursuit of knowledge alongside others. This shift in perspective calls for a reduction in the weight of self-imposed expectations, where the individual does not measure their worth by the scale of their achievements but by their commitment to the collective progress of thought.

Science, as the expression of universal spirit, transcends the singular contributions of any one person. The essence of scientific endeavor is rooted not in the individual’s isolated discoveries, but in the broader, ongoing development of collective understanding. Science, as a manifestation of the universal spirit, grows and evolves through the contributions of many, where each individual’s work serves as a piece in a larger mosaic. It is not the singular brilliance of one person that defines the trajectory of scientific progress, but the collective effort of humanity over time. This is the nature of science and intellectual development: a constant, communal unfolding that transcends individual limitations and aspirations. The contributions of many minds, working within a shared framework of understanding, gradually shape the advancement of knowledge and the articulation of truth.

The individual’s role lies not in claiming importance but in contributing, however modestly, to the larger endeavor of understanding and articulating the truth. In a system of scientific inquiry, the focus is not on the elevation of individual greatness but on the continuous movement toward truth. The individual must recognize that their place within the scientific enterprise is not to seek recognition for their own glory, but to offer their thoughts and efforts toward the broader goal of human knowledge. Whether their contribution is large or small, it is the act of contributing to this ongoing process that matters most. Each individual, by engaging with the scientific and philosophical endeavor, participates in the collective journey toward understanding.

This self-effacing participation aligns with the nature of the scientific enterprise, which values the collective progression of spirit over individual prominence. The nature of science and philosophy demands a humility that allows the individual to see themselves as part of a larger intellectual movement. The pursuit of truth is not about seeking personal accolades or individual distinction, but about contributing to the shared endeavor of articulating and discovering the universal principles that govern existence. In this respect, the individual must abandon the impulse to stand apart or to place themselves above the collective pursuit, embracing instead the role of humble participant in a vast and unfolding intellectual tradition.

Simon Gros

In the Wake of Thought: The Dialectics of Scientific Knowledge

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In the Wake of Thought: The Dialectics of Scientific Knowledge

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